Words failed her then—they choked in her throat. She tried to speak but could not. The only words were in her eyes, and they were glittering like the sun upon a dancing blade of steel.
"Was it necessary to tell me that?" I asked. "I know it so well."
Perhaps it was the quietness of my voice after the storm of hers—whatever it may have been, her eyes were suddenly dimmed. No longer rapier points were glittering there. In place of them came forth a flood of tears. I stepped quickly to her side, whereupon she looked up at me once more.
"Don't touch me again!" she sobbed, "don't touch me again! And never say another word to me as long as you live. Nothing you have told me makes any difference. I love him better than ever—better than anything in the world."
And as she said this, all I can remember thinking was to bless her heart and wonder from what thrilling book in yellow covers had she learnt her words, her love or hatred.
I could have said it aloud, but that moment she had gone. For an instant, too amazed, I watched her climbing the little narrow pathway up the cliffside and then I hurried after her.
"Let me help you up," said I, imperatively. "You can't get up here alone."
So I climbed before her and stretched down my hand which, without question, she took confidingly in her fingers. And I clasped them, saying nothing. I had touched her once more. It is never wise to let a woman know how human she is.
The moment she reached the level path once more, I found my hand empty. With a sudden movement she had drawn her fingers away and, without a word of good-bye, had turned her face towards Ballysheen.
"Had you better walk back alone?" I asked.