He held out his hand. "Give it me."
"Better not, far better not. We must be strong; and this can only be a source of weakness. We will face together that which must be faced and destroy it."
"No," he cried, earnestly. "No. It is mine. I will keep it. Give it me."
"Of what use is it? A mere piece of tawdry faded ribbon when I have given you all my heart."
"Christabel!" His outstretched hand fell as he spoke.
I crossed to his chair and stood by him and laid my hand on his shoulder, looking down into his face. "You will be strong, Karl. I trust you to destroy it;" and I held it out to him.
Instead of taking it he seized my hand and pressed his lips upon it. "If I lose you, I shall go back to what I was," he said, holding my hand and looking up.
I shook my head and smiled. "I have not so little faith in you as that. I, like your countrymen, appeal to the real Karl, and I know we shall not appeal in vain. You have a noble part to play in life, and you will play it nobly as becomes you—and I shall watch you play it, proud to think that I have helped you to be worthy of it and of yourself."
"My God, I cannot give you up," he cried, desperately. "I cannot go back to the lonesomeness of those years. You don't know what they have been to me—desolate, empty, mournful, purposeless. If you bring them back to me after this, I—Christabel, you must not."
"Is that weakness worthy of you or of me?"