"Then I shall go," said Varia, with no smallest understanding of his cry, and rose from the bench. But Nicanor was quicker than she. He caught her hand and turned her half around to face him.
"Nay, I'll not let thee go!" he said unevenly. "The hour is mine, and the night is mine—and I cannot let thee go!"
She sat down once more upon the bench, passively submissive as a child to its elders' will. Nicanor dropped on one knee on the grass beside her, his arms across her lap, his hands prisoning one of hers. His deep voice lowered to a note of lingering tenderness that thrilled like the strings of a harp gently touched.
"Oh, light of all the world to me!" he said softly. "If I but dared tell thee of the thoughts that are mine, and the madness that is mine, and the punishment for them that is mine also! Wouldst understand? Ay, truly, I think so! For I'd tell it so that the deaf trees, that whisper always and hear not—ay, and the very winds of heaven, could not help but know the meaning of my words."
She put her free hand to his face, upturned to hers, and stroked it.
"Thou poor one!" she said with gentle pity. "Is it that thou art ill to-night? Thy face burns hot, like fire. Is all well with thee?"
Nicanor suddenly bowed his head forward on her knees.
"Nay," he answered huskily. "It is not well."
She sat a moment, her hand resting idle on his rough black head.
"I am sorry!" she said then, simply. "Is there—is there aught that I could do? When my lord father is ill, he will have me sometimes to stroke his head, to ease the pain. Wilt thou that I should stroke thy head also?—Nay, do not move! See, I will touch it so, and so, and soon thou shalt be cured."