"Better to be the poorest son of the soil than lord of many acres, if that were true, Stella. But it is not. I do not care whether I am rich or poor, noble or nameless—yes, I do! I am glad for your sake. I have never cared before. I have never realized it before, but I do now. I am glad now. Do you know why?"
She shook her head, her eyes downcast.
"Because I can lay them all at your feet," and as he speaks he bends on one knee beside her and draws her hand with trembling hands to his heart.
"See, Stella, I lay them at your feet. I say take them, if you think them worth—take them, and make them worth having; no, I say rather, share them with me? Set against your love, my darling, title, lands, wealth—are all worthless dross to me. Give me your love, Stella; I must, I will have it!" and he presses a passionate clinging kiss on her hand.
Frightened by his vehemence, Stella draws her hand away and shrinks back.
He rises and draws her to a seat, standing beside her calm and penitent.
"Forgive me, Stella! I frighten you! See, I will be quite gentle and quiet—only listen to me!"
"No, no," she murmurs, trembling, "I must not. Think—if—if—I said what you wish me to say, how could I meet the countess? What would they say to me? They would blame me for stealing your love."
"You have not stolen; no nun from a convent could have been more free from artifice than you, Stella. You have stolen nothing; it is I who have given—GIVEN you all."