They seated themselves on a bench far away from the music and the crowds. He did not speak but repeated his deep sigh.
"Has it made you worse to come, dear?" Hilda asked anxiously. "Are you sick?"
"Sick?" he said in a hollow voice. "My soul is sick—dying. My God! My God!" An impressive pause. "Ah, child, you do not know what suffering is—you who have lived only in these simple, humble surroundings."
Hilda was trembling with apprehension. "What is it, Carl? You can tell me. Let me help you bear it."
"No! no! I must bear it alone. I must take my dark shadow from your young life. I ought not to have come. I should have fled. But love makes me a coward."
"But I love you, Carl," she said gently.
"And I have missed you—dreadfully, dreadfully!"
He rolled his eyes wildly. "You torture me!" he exclaimed, seizing her hand in a dead man's clutch. "How CAN I speak?"
Hilda's heart seemed to stand still. She was pale to the lips, and he could see, even in the darkness, her eyes grow and startle.
"What is it?" she murmured. "You know I—can bear anything for you."