“Will you not let me put it right for you?” he asked.
She raised herself on her elbow, her eyes still downcast, the long lashes sweeping her cheeks, one hand grasping the edge of the hammock.
He lifted the pillow to its proper position, and, thinking that he had finished, she leaned back; but he was smoothing the pillow, and she rested on his arm. An electric thrill shot through him, and his face went white; hers grew crimson, and she raised her head and looked at him.
Only for a moment did her eyes meet his, but something passed from them to his very heart—something that made him utter a short, sharp cry. His arm tightened around her, and he drew her up to him and pressed her to him in a grasp that was steel and velvet combined. She made no effort to free herself, but hid her face upon his breast and lay there panting—and satisfied.
“Esmeralda!” he breathed. “You not only forgive me, but love me?”
“I have always loved you!” she whispered; and he could feel her lips move.
It seemed too wonderful to be true; that even a woman’s love could survive the blows he had dealt it.
“Say it again, dearest,” he said, “again! again!”
“I love you! I love you!” she said.
He let her fall back slowly in the hammock, his arm still round her, and as he knelt, he hid his face on her bosom.