“I see; it shall be as you say. I will wait your own good time and pleasure, praying you to remember that the days will drag wearily until we turn our faces eastward.”
“I shall not be long.”
“Two or three days, I suppose, will be all-sufficient?”
“Perhaps so, but I can not say with certainty.”
“And there is no danger of your desiring to withdraw your consent; you can never be sorry for your promise.”
“Not so long as you do not forget yours.”
“Then it can never be,” was the ardent reply of Hammond, as he again pressed her to him, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek.
She gently freed herself, and rising to her feet, stood calmly before him, looking lovingly and trustingly in his face.
“No,” she said, after a moment’s pause, “I do not think one of us ever will be sorry for this. You profess to love me, and I believe you, and I know, too, that you have the whole, undivided affection of Cecilia Alamant—that she is yours, now and forever!”
But there must be an end to all things, and the lovers became sensible that several hours had passed since they met, and it was now past noon. Lamora moved toward the path, Hammond still holding her hand and walking beside her.