"Adrian," she asked, "do you love me very much?"
The face bent over her afforded answer sufficient.
"Love you?" he replied. "I do not think, Hyacinth, that I could love you more; to me it does not seem possible."
"If you were to lose me, then, it would be a great sorrow?"
"Lose you!" he cried. "Why, Cynthy, I would rather ten thousand times over lose my own life."
She liked to remember afterward how he drew her head upon his breast—how he caressed her and murmured sweet words of tenderness to her—how he told her of his love in such ardent words that the fervor of them lasted with her until she died. It was for the last time. A great solemn calm of despair fell over her. To-morrow she would be far away; his arm would never enfold her, his eyes never linger on her, his lips never touch her more. It was for the last time, and she loved him better than her life; but for her sin and folly, she would now have been the happiest girl in the wide world.
"My darling," he murmured, "as though weak words could tell how dear you are to me."
He kissed her trembling lips and then she broke from him with a great cry. She could bear no more. She fled through the pine grove, crying to herself with bitter tears: "If I could but die! Oh, Heaven, be merciful to me, and let me die!"