"For mine, then."
The words seem to scorch her. She covers her face with her hands and stands before him, stricken dumb, miserable—confessed.
"For yours!"
He goes closer to her, and ventures to take her hand. It is cold—cold as death. His is burning.
"You have given a reason for my staying, indeed," says he. "But what is the meaning of it?"
"This!" cried she, throwing up her head, and showing him her shamed and grief-stricken face. "I am a coward! In spite of everything I would not have you go—so far!"
"I see. I understand," he sighs, heavily. "And yet that story was a foul lie! It is all that stands between us, Isabel. Is it not so? But you will not believe."
There, is a long silence, during which neither of them stirs. They seem wrapt in thought—in silence—he still holding her hand.
"If it was a lie," says she at last, breaking the quiet around them by an effort, "would you so far forgive my distrust of you as to be holding my hand like this?"
"Yes. What is there I would not forgive you?" says he. "And it was a lie!"