“The Rhamda? Is he your husband? You are the same—”
“Oh,” she answered, “why do you say it?” Her eyes snapped and she grew rigid. “The Rhamda! My husband! If you only knew. I hate him! We are enemies. It was he who opened the Blind Spot. I am here because he is evil. To watch him. I love your world, I love it all. I would save it. I love—”
She dropped her head. Whatever she was, she was not above sobbing.
I touched her hair; it was of the softest texture I have ever seen; the lustre was like all the beauty of night woven into silk. She loved, loved; I could love—I was on the point of surrender.
“Tell me,” I asked, “just one thing more. If I gave you this ring would you save the doctor and Chick Watson?”
She raised her head; her eyes glistened; but she did not answer.
“Would you?”
She shook her head. “I cannot,” she answered. “That cannot be. I can only save you for—for—Charlotte.”
Was it vanity in myself? I don't know. It seemed to me that it was hard for her to say it. Frankly, I loved her. I knew it. I loved Charlotte. I loved them both. But I held to my purpose.
“Are the professor and Watson living?”