In an ecstasy of almost fanatic ardour he pressed her to his heart. He kissed her hair, her mouth.
"I love you, I love you," he repeated over and over again, as though the magic words could save her from harm.
"And if I am killed, what will you do?"
"Killed! You! But that is not possible. On the Antoniad you will be out of range of the battle!"
She looked at him dreamily.
"One never knows—we could be separated."
He could not imagine anything but death separating them. How could he live without his adored mistress, without her voice, her look? If she had her dagger ready, he had his sword!
She diverted him gently to less tragic possibilities.
"It is not only my death. One never knows what may happen to divide us."
But Antony was too wrought up to consider things calmly.