“Are you frightened of me, Esmeralda?” he asked, with a world of remorse and self-reproach in his voice.
“I don’t know,” she breathed. “Are you going to be angry with me again? Is it of any use?”
He knelt down beside the hammock, and his hand went out toward hers; but he drew it back; he did not dare to touch her.
“I have not come to be angry with you, Esmeralda,” he said. “I have just come to look at you—to hear you speak, I won’t say another word to you; I will go away now, this moment, if you wish it, if my being here is too much for you.”
She looked at him questioningly. Her brows were still straight, her lips slightly apart.
“I am not tired,” she whispered. “What is it you want to say to me?”
“Only one sentence, Esmeralda,” he said. “And see, dearest, I say it kneeling at your feet. It is: Forgive me!”
She breathed quickly.
“Forgive you?” she said, wonderingly, her heart beating faster.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes eloquent with imploration. “I scarcely dare ask you, there is so much to forgive! Ever since we first met, I have wronged you, have cruelly misjudged you, have proved unworthy of you.”