"No, I want no more," he said. "All the roses that ever bloomed would not add to my pleasure. It is this rose from your hand that I value."
Stella made a slight movement toward the window, but he put out his hand.
"Stay one moment—only a moment," he said, and in his eagerness he put out his hand and touched her arm, the arm sacred to Leycester.
Stella shrank back, and a little shudder swept through her.
"What—what is it!" she asked, in a low voice that she tried to make calm and cold and repressive.
He stood, shutting and opening the knife with a nervous restlessness, as unlike his calm impassability as the streaming torrent that forces its way through the mountain gorge is like the lake at their feet; his eyes fixed on her face with anxious eagerness.
"I want to speak to you," he said. "Only a few words—a very few words. Will you listen to me? I hope you will listen to me."
Stella stood, her face turned away from him, her heart beating, but coldly and with fear and repugnance, not as it had beat when Leycester's low tones first fell upon her ear.
He moistened his lips again, and his hand closed over the shut knife with a tight clasp, as if he were striving to regain self-command.
"I know it is unwise. I feel that—that you would rather not listen to me, and that I shall do very little good by speaking, but I cannot. There are times, Stella——"