He stood silent, his face ghastly as if he were very ill. His eyes, sunk deep in blue-black sockets, burned into hers with an intensity that terrified her. She began slowly to retreat.
"Do not fly from me," he said in a hollow voice, leaning against the counter weakly. "I have come only for a moment. Then—you will see me never again!"
She paused and watched him. His expression, his tone, his words filled her with pity for him.
"You hate me," he went on. "You abhor me. It is just—just! Yet"—he looked at her with passionate sadness—"it was because I loved you that I deceived you. Because—I—loved you!"
"You must go away," said Hilda, pleading rather than commanding. "You've done me enough harm."
"I shall harm you no more." He drew himself up in gloomy majesty. "I have finished my life. I am bowing my farewell. Another instant, and I shall vanish into the everlasting night."
"That would be cowardly!" exclaimed Hilda. She was profoundly moved. "You have plenty to live for."
"Do you forgive me, Hilda?" He gave her one of his looks of tragic eloquence.
"Yes—I forgive you."
He misunderstood the gentleness of her voice. "She loves me still!" he said to himself. "We shall die together and our names will echo down the ages." He looked burningly at her and said: "I was mad—mad with love for you. And when I realized that I had lost you, I went down, down, down. God! What have I not suffered for your sake, Hilda!" As he talked he convinced himself, pictured himself to himself as having been drawn on by a passion such as had ruined many others of the great of earth.