"Would you have me live, Lydie?"
And as she did not reply, he repeated his question again:
"Do you wish me to live, Lydie?"
She fought with the tears, which against her will gathered in her eyes.
"Milor, milor, are you not cruel now?" she whispered through those tears.
"Cruel of a truth," he replied earnestly, "since you would have saved me at peril of your own dear life. . . . Yet would I gladly die to see you happy."
"Will you not rather live, milor?" she said with a smile of infinite tenderness, "for then only could I taste happiness."
"Yet if I lived, you would have to give up so much that you love."
"That is impossible, milor, for I only love one thing."
"Your work in France?" he asked.