“Never—until thou answerest.”
“Give me but breath to answer.”
“Make not merry. Come, let me see thine eyes.”
Hard he tried to turn her head; but she was strong, firm. There, under the starlight, with the noise of the talking above, and to the purling of the water against the neighboring vessels, they both persisted, he in holding her, and she in trying to get away. Pathetically, he continued:
“As thou sayest, Electra, we are young in years, but thou canst not add we are young in sorrowing. We are ages old in that we have borne!”
Too much was this for Electra. The dreadful past at once swept over her. She thought of that time when she had first beheld Hellen in the temple; of the swift outgoing of her sympathy, aye, love; of those meetings in which she had come to know of his independence, his impetuosity, his agonies. Then her eyes suffusing, she turned to look at him—looked to perceive the old anxiety reappearing, for again was he doubting, fearing. And this decided her. No more suffering should be his through her. Instantly, her struggling ceased. Then her arms got about him to fond murmuring,
“As if ever I could forget aught that thou hast borne. Hellen—dear Hellen!”
His was then the distraction of joy. In a mad way did he embrace her, the while whispering vehemently, “Electra, as soon as we set foot in Pelasgia, will we wed.”
Intent upon soothing him, she answered, “Yea, yea, Hellen, we will. But I beg thee to be calm. I worry for thee.”
He held her close, not speaking. She subjoined in a faint tone, for the pressure was trying,