Soft though her voice was, there was passion quivering in every sentence.
When I turned to look at her, her eyes and face seemed aflame with it.
The color had streamed into her cheeks, she had drifted into my arms, and
her clinging lips yielded unresistingly to mine.
"Oh! Jim," she murmured, "the rest isn't worth anything. Tell me that you will come."
I did not answer her at once, and she seemed content to lie where she was. My own senses were in a wild tumult of delight, but there was a pain in my heart. Presently she drew a little away. There was a new note in her tone—a note of half-alarmed surprise.
"Answer me, Jim! Oh! answer me please," she begged. "Don't let me think—that you mean to refuse."
I held her tightly in my arms. The memory of that moment might have to last me all my life.
"My dear heart," I whispered, "it would be Paradise! Some day we will do it. But in your heart, you know very well that you would love me no more if I forgot my honor and my duty—even for the love of you!"
"It is not your task," she pleaded. "Tell what you know, and leave it to others. You are too honest to play the spy. You will fail, and it will cost you your life."
"I shall not fail," I answered steadfastly, "and my life is insured in
Heaven for the sake of the things I carry with me. Have faith in me,
Adèle. I swear that I will do my duty and live to realize—everything."
She shook her head sadly.
"There are others," she said, "who could do what you are doing. But for me there is no one else in the world."