"Tristram!" she faltered. It seemed as if her voice had gone again, and the words would make no sound. But she gathered her strength, and, with pitiful pleading, stretched out her arms.
"Tristram—I have come to tell you—I have never had a lover: Mimo was at last married to Maman. He was her lover, and Mirko was their child—my little brother. My uncle did not wish me to tell you this for a time, because it was the family disgrace." Then, as he made a step forward to her, with passionate joy in his face, she went on:
"Tristram! You said, that night—before you would ever ask me to be your wife again, I must go down upon my knees—See—I do!—for Oh!—I love you!" And suddenly she bent and knelt before him, and bowed her proud head.
But she did not stay in this position a second, for he clasped her in his arms, and rained mad, triumphant kisses upon her beautiful, curved lips, while he murmured,
"At last—my Love—my own!"
Then when the delirium of joy had subsided a little,—with what tenderness he took off her hat and furs, and drew her into his arms, on the sofa before the fire.—The superlative happiness to feel her resting there, unresisting, safe in his fond embrace, with those eyes, which had been so stormy and resentful, now melting upon him in softest passion.
It seemed heaven to them both. They could not speak coherent sentences for a while—just over and over again they told each other that they loved.—It seemed as if he could not hear her sweet confession often enough—or quench the thirst of his parched soul upon her lips.
Then the masterfulness in him which Zara now adored asserted itself. He must play with her hair! He must undo it, and caress its waves, to blot out all remembrance of how its forbidden beauty had tortured him.—And she just lay there in his arms, in one of her silences, only her eyes were slumberous with love.
But at last she said, nestling closer,