"You see you must understand. You have conquered. I have surrendered—unconditionally. But it's not a victory to be very proud of or a surrender to be proud of. Once I could have given you everything—with a glory of pride—but not now." He had to bend his ear to catch her words so faintly were they breathed. "I'm overwhelmed, but not convinced. I'm ready to choose because your will has proven the stronger—but I know that it's only a triumph of passion over right. Some day we may both realize that—and hate each other."
"But you have chosen! You've risen above the bigotry of your blood!"
"No. I'm just conquered—whipped into submission. I told you you might attack when you liked.... I thought I was strong ... and I wasn't. It isn't a victory over my strength—but over my weakness. To-night I was utterly helpless."
She seemed stronger now, and in a sudden bewilderment the man released her and she stood before him pale but no longer inert.
"Then—then," he spoke with a new note of misgiving, "your decision is not final after all?"
That word "helpless" was ringing like a knell over his late triumph. It tinged victory with a hideous color of rapacity and brutality.
"Yes—it's final." She spoke slowly and laboriously. "It's final because I've confessed my helplessness. If I rallied and resisted you to-night ... I know now ... that I'd surrender again to-morrow. There's only one way I can be saved now."
"Saved—but you've saved yourself. What do you mean?"
"No, I've lost myself. You've won me ... but that's over. I can't fight any more.... I tell you I'm helpless." After a moment she added with a ghost of new-born hopefulness: "unless you can do my fighting for me."
"What would you have me do?" His words came flatly and with no trace of their recent elation.