'Martyrs, yes; but how can it have too many workers?' she asked, not looking at him.
'To be a worker is to be a martyr,' he answered, rising and standing near her; 'and that is the reason why you are the only convert I have never rejoiced over.'
'I don't know,' she was beginning when he interrupted her.
'Don't say that,' he said. 'Don't say you don't know why I can't endure the thought of your ever knowing anything but peace and happiness. You know it is because I love you, and my love for you has eaten up all my other loves. Freedom, the Revolution, my country, my own ambition, are all nothing to me. But if you care for the cause I can still work in it, and with a thousand times more enthusiasm than it ever inspired me with before, for you. That can be your way of helping it. Use me as your instrument. Make any use you will of me, if only you are safe and happy, and mine.'
His voice was low with the passion which for the moment thrilling through him made him quite believe his own words.
Clare had listened silently, her eyes cast down, and her nervous fingers diligently tearing an envelope into little bits, and when he had ended she still did not speak, but her breath came and went quickly.
'You,' he was beginning again, when she stretched out her hand to silence him.
'No, no,' she said; 'don't say any more—I can't bear it.'
'Does that mean that you care?'