For answer, in his primitive wisdom, he swept her to him, overwhelming her thought. Lip to lip they clung, she imprisoned, silenced, caught up from fear. His arms about her in fierce pressure were a whole armour against doubt—more than armour, a charm, for the arrows themselves were diverted and flew wide of her, forgotten. Flames ran down her as his mouth burned against her throat, and her lips, opened now, were full of the sharp sea-wind.
She fell from him a little, still held.
“That once,” she said, with caught breath, “that instant lives. That stands. Nothing can touch it or steal it.... Don’t let me go—not yet, my darling—don’t let me go!”
He drew her close again, but more gently. And she said:
“It’s our victory.”
“Nothing reverses it.”
“Tell me——”
He told her his love again and again, her arm drawing him down so that the fresh scent of her hair was over him.
“Nothing takes those words back”—his kiss fell on her—“or the touch.”