"'I would not love you, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more,'"
"But it is not honor; it is sacrifice," he argued.
"What duty is not?" she questioned sadly.
"It is madness," he fumed impotently.
"Think of my people." She shook her head in magnificent self-abnegation, putting aside the tenderer visions which were thronging her heart, picturing her life with the man at her side. "Their welfare demands it."
He leaned across to plead with her. The loose flying tresses of her hair touched his cheeks in elusive salute. They beckoned him closer and ever closer. His heart could be heard, he feared, so loudly did it beat. He could feel the great red surges being pumped through arteries, too small for their impulsive torrents. They choked him.
"Trusia," he cried hoarsely, for the first time using her Christian name. The entire soul of the man, every particle of his entity, had entered into the saying of that name.
Startled, she turned to learn the reason for his vehemence; that voice had spoken so compellingly to her eyes, ears, heart and body, and had sought out every resistance and overcome it. Her eyes, held captive to his gaze, were wide with question.
"I love you," he continued with quiet masterfulness, as one who, staking all on one throw of the dice, dispenses with pretense and braggadocio in the face of despair. "Listen to me. I would make you happy. I'd be your devoted slave, till white-haired, aged and blissful, life should pass from us gently as the echoes of a happy song of spring."