As he looked wistfully far away over the sea at Helena’s mist-curtain, he said:
“I think we should be able to keep together if”—he faltered—“if only I could have you a little longer. I have never had you …”
Some sound of failure, some tone telling her it was too late, some ring of despair in his quietness, made Helena cling to him wildly, with a savage little cry as if she were wounded. She clung to him, almost beside herself. She could not lose him, she could not spare him. She would not let him go. Helena was, for the moment, frantic.
He held her safely, saying nothing until she was calmer, when, with his lips on her cheek, he murmured:
“I should be able, shouldn’t I, Helena?”
“You are always able!” she cried. “It is I who play with you at hiding.”
“I have really had you so little,” he said.
“Can’t you forget it, Siegmund?” she cried. “Can’t you forget it? It was only a shadow, Siegmund. It was a lie, it was nothing real. Can’t you forget it, dear?”
“You can’t do without me?” he asked.
“If I lose you I am lost,” answered she with swift decision. She had no knowledge of weeping, yet her tears were wet on his face. He held her safely; her arms were hidden under his coat.