“Who is it?” he exclaimed, becoming aware of a woman’s figure near the fire. She started up, and with her first movement he knew her. “Mi dona!” he cried in his astonishment.
“Cherry asked to see me,” she faltered. “He is so ill—I could not help crying.”
“Ah, no!” said Alvar; “and I may not comfort you!”
But he came close and stood by her side, and she saw that he too was greatly agitated. She wanted to speak about Cheriton, but she could not command her voice, nor think of a word to say.
Suddenly Alvar turned and clasped her hand.
“Ah!” he cried, with such vehemence as she had never seen in him before. “My heart is breaking! Can you never forgive? I love you; I have always loved you. When you sent me from you, it was my pride that let me submit! In my own country I knew that for your sake I was English—English altogether. I am not worthy, but I repent. I have confessed. Help me, and I will be a good Englishman! For I have now no other country, and I cannot live without you. Give me your hand once more!”
Alvar poured forth this torrent with such burning eagerness, such abandonment of entreaty, that he did not see how weak were the defences he was attacking.
“Indeed,” she whispered, “it was not that—not that I thought you were—not good—I thought you did not love me—much.”
“I did—I do love you—I love you as my life! But you?”
“I have always loved you. I could not change,” she said, with something of her old gentle dignity. “But—I have been very unhappy all this time.”