It almost seemed to her—when she thought over all the circumstances in her mind—that she must have been subtly conscious of the presence all along—all the while that Maurice was still with her and she felt so curiously languid, longing only for darkness and solitude.
Something encompassed her now that she could not define: the warmth of Love, the sense of protection and security—almost as if unseen arms, that were strong and devoted and selfless, held her closely, shielding her from evil and from the taint of selfish human passions.
And presently she heard her name—whispered low and with a note of tender appeal.
Her eyes were closed and she paid no heed: but the appeal was once more whispered—this time more insistently, and almost against her will she murmured:
"Who calls?"
"An unfortunate whom you hate and despise, and who would have given his life to serve you."
"Who is it?" she reiterated.
"A poor heart-broken wretch who could not keep away from your side, and longed for one more sound of your voice even though it uttered words more cruel than man can stand."
"What would you like to hear?"
"One word of comfort to ease that terrible sting of hate which has burned into my very soul, till every minute of life has become unendurable agony."