“No; you speak too late. I must go. But before I go I shall tell you once more, so you may remember it always—I love you more than anything else and everything else in all the world. There’ll never be any other woman for me.”
“Then, why, why?” she demanded hoarsely. “What is it that you mean when you say that you must go—that you never will——”
The cricket in the grass was asserting himself loudly, insistently.
“Life is short for me,” he answered. “It may be long for you. Why should I pretend, who am about to die?”
His voice was relentless. He carried always the feeling of relentlessness, of an unemotional, unconditional coldness in purpose. An icy man, a terrible man, even now.
Again the cricket, for a little space. The firelight was but faint.
Suddenly he sank on his knees beside her, one hand on the bed roll that made her seat, so that he could look into her face. But her hands covered it. He touched her hand. It was wet with tears. Slowly he drew back.
“What have I said? What have I done?”
“Ah, you should be content!” she broke out presently. “You have your revenge!”
“What do you mean? I can’t well stand to hear you say that. Revenge?”