"You love me!" he murmured, hoarsely, looking back on the night of the past. "Can it be true, Lenore? You!"
She nestled on his breast and looked up at him, and from the pale face the dark eyes gleamed passionately.
"Leycester," she breathed, "you know I love you! You know it!"
He pressed her closer to him, then a hoarse cry broke from him.
"God forgive me!"
It was a strange response at such a moment.
"Why do you say that?" she asked, looking up at him; his face was haggard and remorseful, anything but as a lover's face should be, but he smiled gravely and kissed her.
"It is strange!" he said, as if in explanation—"strange that I should have won your love, I who am so unworthy, while you are so peerless!"
She trembled a little with a sudden qualm of fear. If he could but know of what she had been guilty to win him! It was she who was unworthy! But she put the fear from her. She had got him, and she did not doubt her power to hold him.
"Do not speak of unworthiness," she murmured, lovingly. "We have both passed through the world, Leycester, and have learned to value true love. You have always had mine," she added, in a faint whisper.