"No—no!" I protested. "I feel for you; I can't tell you how much."
"Don't think of me," she again whispered, her look averted.
"I can think of nothing else," said I. My teeth suddenly clenched, and I bent toward her.
"I'll not allow this thing!" I undertoned in a savage outburst, recognizing the futility of my anger even as I spoke. "I shall not allow you to become further involved in this thing. Whatever the cost, I shall shield you."
A pitiful smile stirred her lips.
"You have shown me my duty," she said, with gentle firmness; "you can't dissuade me now."
What do words avail at such a time? I loved this splendid girl, and my heart ached for her. I was almost swept from my balance by a sudden mad yearning to take her in my arms and try to comfort her.
Yes, I loved her; there is no use in holding back the confession; else where would be my great personal interest and concern in the death of Felix Page?
Yet I did not protest further; remonstrance would avail me nothing. Gently as she had spoken, it was driven home to me that she had expressed a determination which no power in heaven or on the earth below could change.
Another long silence followed, during which I as well as she was stirred by the most conflicting emotions. At last, though, I too began to see my way clear. Matters could not be helped any by either of us shirking the least part of a responsibility which had, within the last few minutes, become sweetly mutual. How anxious I was to spare her!