The faint wind agitated the clusters of locust blooms; their perfume descended in heavy voluptuous waves. He pressed his hands one against each of her cheeks. "Courtney," he murmured. "My love—my dear love!" Their lips met.
"We must not!" she pleaded, her arms about his neck.
"After to-night," he reminded her, "we, who love, will never see each other again."
"Never again!" she moaned.
It was the signal both were unconsciously, yet deliberately, awaiting. He gave an inarticulate cry, caught her up as a strong wind a flower. "I've had enough of right and wrong," cried he. "You are mine! I will not let you go. I love you—I love you—I love you!" And he showered kisses upon her until she, dizzy and fainting, yet never so alive, was clinging to him, was calling him endearing names, was laughing and sobbing. And in that darkness and mad frenzy of longing and despair they could pretend to themselves that it was all as unreal as a dream—was, in fact, a dream, or at worst, impulse—irresistible, irresponsible.
He felt her heart flutter, halt in its steady, strong beat within her breast close against his. She raised her head from his shoulder, listened. "What is it?" he whispered.
"Listen."
A bird broke from the copse and with a great noise of wings against leaves blundered away to another and higher place. "A bird—that was all," said he.
"Sh—h! No. They never stir so suddenly at night without cause." She was cold, was shivering. They looked at each other, tingling with guilty alarm.
"I'll go see."