But there is, as I had said, a limit to endurance. Her mockery raised in me suddenly a fierce madness—a carelessness of what might follow. I groped for her blindly, my arms were about her, crushing her to me with a sort of savage fury. The mockery was gone from her eyes now; she tried to beat me off, then, with a little sob, hid her face upon my shoulder. But pity was not in me, only a fierce exulting, and I raised her face, I lifted her lips to mine and kissed them desperately, passionately, again and again.
Then I released her and stood erect, my blood on fire, a great joy at my heart.
CHAPTER VII.
I DARE AND AM FORGIVEN.
For a moment she did not stir, only sat there crushed and dazed, staring straight before her, as though not understanding what had happened. And looking down at her my mood of exultation in my triumph changed suddenly to one of pity for her weakness. I had felt precisely the same emotion many times before, when, having brought down a bird or a rabbit by some daring or difficult shot, I came to the spot where my victim lay bleeding its life out. Pity for my victim always outweighed the satisfaction which the successful shot had given me, and I would tramp sadly home, resolved to hunt no more.
So, gazing down at that bowed head, I felt pity for her rise warm within my heart. She was right. Men were brutes—crushing women by their strength, pulling them down, taking their will of them, then faring gaily on without a thought for the shame and suffering they left behind. So it had always been.
At last she looked up at me, and her eyes were very cold.
“Was that the act of a gentleman?” she asked.
“It was not,” I said, and at my tone I saw her start and look up at me more keenly. No doubt she had expected to hear in my voice a note of triumph.
“You are ready, then, to apologize?” she continued, after a moment.
“I sincerely beg your pardon, mademoiselle.”