“I must get aid,” I said thickly. “I must get you to some house.”
She was clutching wildly at my sleeve, her face convulsed, her eyes bright with suffering.
“Leave me,” she said, pulling me down to her. “Leave me. It is no more than I deserve. Save yourself. Only,” she added softly, “kiss me first.”
For answer, I bent and lifted her tenderly in my arms, pressed her close against my heart and kissed her quivering lips, her shining eyes, and fragrant hair.
“I love you,” I whispered—“more than ever I love you! Oh, I shall never be able to tell you how I love you!”
She clung to me desperately, and I held her close—close—trembling with a great happiness.
“Tell me,” I whispered; “I know it now—but tell me!”
She lifted her face to mine, no longer pinched with suffering, but radiant with joy.
“I love you!” she said. “Oh, why should I deny it?”
Again I kissed her; then I set off down the hill, while she dropped her head upon my shoulder and sobbed silently—but I knew that it was not with pain. She was mine—mine! Nothing could alter that! Not all the oaths of heaven and hell could alter that! Not the scorn of the living nor the memory of the dead could alter that! I had happiness within my hand and I would hold it fast; there should be no paltering with it, no looking back, no question of this or that. How foolish all such questions seemed, now that the die was cast!