"No!" He flung the word with something of his ancient ferocity. She was torturing him past endurance. He even madly hoped that he could scare her away.
But Sybil made no move to go. She sat quite still for a few seconds. Then slowly she went down upon her knees beside his pillow.
"Brett," she said, and he felt her breath quick and tremulous upon his face as she spoke, "you may refuse to believe what I say. But—I can convince you without words."
And before he knew her meaning, she had pressed her quivering lips to his.
He recoiled, with an anguished sound that was half of protest and half of unutterable pain.
"Do you want to die too?" he said. "Or don't you know the risk?"
"Yes, I know it," she answered. "I know it," and in her voice was such a thrill of passion as he had never heard or thought to hear from her. "But I know this, too, and I mean that you shall know it. My life is nothing to me—do you understand?—nothing, unless you share it. Now—will you believe me?"
Yes, he believed her then. He had no choice. The knowledge was as a sword cutting its way straight to his heart. He tried to answer her, tried desperately hard, because he knew that she was waiting for him to speak, that his silence would hurt her who from that day forward he would never hurt again.
But no words would come. He could not force his utterance. The power of speech was gone from him. He turned his face away from her in choking tears.
And Sybil knew that the victory was hers. Those tears were more to her than words. She knew that he would live—if he could—for her sake.