"Remember my temper," he says, warningly. "Only last night I struck you. Think of that. I shall probably strike you again. Be advised in time, and forsake me, like all the others."
"You torture me," she says, still in the same low panting whisper. "You are my very heart,—my life. Take me with you. Only let me see your face sometimes, and hear your voice. I will not trouble you, or hinder you in any way; only let me be near you." She presses her pale lips to his hand with desperate entreaty.
"Be it so," he says, after a moment's hesitation. "If ever, in the days to come, you repent your bargain, blame yourself, not me. I have offered you liberty, and you have rejected it. I shall leave this country in a week's time; so be prepared. But before going, as you are so determined to cast in your lot with mine, I shall marry you."
She starts to her feet.
"Marry me?" she says, faintly. "Make me your wife! Oh, no! you don't know what you are saying."
She trembles violently, and her head falls somewhat heavily against his arm.
"It isn't worth a fainting fit," he says, hastily enough; but his arm, as he places it round her, is strong and compassionate. "Can anything be more absurd than a woman? Sit down here, and try to be reasonable. You must be quick with your preparations, as we start on Tuesday. I will see about a special license, and we can get the marriage ceremony over to-morrow. I know a fellow who will manage it all for me."
"You are quite sure you will never regret this step?" she says, earnestly, even at this supremely happy moment placing his happiness before her own.
"I don't suppose so. If it is any satisfaction to you to know it," he says, with a shrug, "you are the only woman I have ever loved, and probably the only one I ever shall love."
A smile—radiant, perfect—lights her face. Surely, just then, the one moment of utter happiness, that they tell us is all that is ever allowed to poor mortals, is hers. It is broken by the clock of a neighboring church clanging out the hour.