She bent forward and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Then, as she slid gently down, his right arm crept around her waist, holding her so firmly and securely that she had left the saddle and hung in its support while her feet had not yet touched the earth. Her warm breath was on Gilbert's forehead; her bosom swept his breast, and the arm that until then had supported, now swiftly, tenderly, irresistibly embraced her. Trembling, thrilling from head to foot, utterly unable to control the mad impulse of the moment, he drew her to his heart and laid his lips to hers. All that he would have said—all, and more than all, that words could have expressed—was now said, without words. His kiss clung as if it were the last this side of death—clung until he felt that Martha feebly strove to be released.
The next minute they stood side by side, and Gilbert, by a revulsion equally swift and overpowering, burst into a passion of tears.
He turned and leaned his head against Roger's neck. Presently a light touch came upon his shoulder.
“Gilbert!”
He faced her then, and saw that her own cheeks were wet. “Martha!” he cried, “unless you love me with a love like mine for you, you can never forgive me!”
She came nearer; she laid her arms around him, and lifted her face to his. Then she said, in a tender, tremulous whisper,—
“Gilbert—Gilbert! I forgive you.”
A pang of wonderful, incredulous joy shot through his heart. Exalted by his emotion above the constraints of his past and present life, he arose and stood free and strong in his full stature as a man. He held her softly and tenderly embraced, and a purer bliss than the physical delight of her warm, caressing presence shone upon his face as he asked,—
“Forever, Martha?”
“Forever.”