“I’m asking what any American girl, who was true to her country, would give gladly ... unless she loved the man.”
“If Mr. Cantor were a spy and I could give him to you—if I could give him to you without—” She stopped, bit her lips. She had almost said, “without betraying my father.” She went on, hurriedly, “I would let them kill me if I could give him to you.”
“I hope,” he said, bitterly, “that you may never know what it is to love and be forced—forced—to despise the one you love.... You told me you loved me—and lied when you said it.... Even after you had made that confession, after you had told me that thing, I loved you.... I would have taken you and married you and it should never have existed for us.... I could have done that. Even then I didn’t despise you. It hurt—it was a thing I couldn’t think of and live—but I didn’t despise you.... It was only when I saw you with that man, day after day, shameless—only after you made me see that loyalty and truth and decency were not in you, and that you were a traitor to your country—that I despised you. And even now, if I were able to see your eyes, I would doubt it.... How can you be what you are and keep that look in your eyes?...”
“Potter!” she cried. “No!...”
“Who is Cantor?” he said, harshly.
“I can’t tell you.”
“You see?” he said, bitterly. Then his voice changed, became charged with emotion, and the emotion thrilled her, moved her as she had never been moved. “Even now I could love you; I could forget—everything but this. You can’t be bad. Great God! It isn’t possible that you can be altogether what you seem to be. Tell me, Hildegarde.... You can tell me what I must know. It’s your duty. It’s a thing your country demands of you.... It’s your chance. Can’t you see it is your chance—to keep something of your soul alive? Do this thing; be loyal in this—and I can keep on loving you till the end, with the rest blotted out. I will remember only this.... Think, Hildegarde!... Don’t let me go now. Don’t leave this thing as it is....”
She was sobbing, clinging to him childishly. The flame was gone out of her, the light dead; the pertness, the keenness which had been so much of her charm, had vanished, and she was nothing but a broken, wailing child.
“Oh, Potter—don’t—don’t!... Don’t go away! Don’t leave me!... I love you, and I’m afraid! Oh, be good to me! Don’t speak to me so!... Hold me; take me in your arms and hold me—so I can feel safe—so I can know that there is goodness in the world!... I love you!... I love you!”
If she had been clothed in flaming pitch he could not have resisted her; he must have taken her in his arms and strained her against his heart if the very touch of her had eaten the flesh from his bones.... They stood, lips to lips, and the pain of his arms crushing her was very sweet.