"Claire ... will you marry me now?..." Danilo's words came back to her with all their beautiful and daring simplicity. A child acknowledging a fault, and trembling upon the threshold of a joy that was likely to be denied in consequence, would have used the same tone. This was the manner of petition that must swerve even a God of Wrath from his vengeance, she thought, that could wring showers of mercy from the most pitilessly blue skies.
She thought of Stillman, too—this new Stillman, forged in the flame of a perilous spiritual experience, still glowing and warm. He had never seemed so human as at that moment when she had stood apart and watched his hands fluttering above the head of the man they both loved.... Loved? Yes, he loved Danilo—as Lycurgus loved him, as her mother had loved him. "Where is Danilo?" This had been Mrs. Robson's last question—her last words.
She could not fancy her mother calling for Stillman. It was not given to many to be a flint upon which the sparks of affection are readily struck.
She went every day with Stillman and sat for five minutes at Danilo's bedside, and on the third day Danilo, opening his eyes wide, said to her in a clear voice, so that even Stillman could hear:
"Claire, will you marry me to-morrow?"
Instinctively her eyes met Stillman's; he bowed his head for a moment, and she could see that his hands were clenched.
"If you wish it," she answered.
Danilo turned to Stillman. "My brother, do you think it will be possible?"
Stillman smiled doubtfully. "To-morrow? That is rather soon ... but when you are a little stronger...."