"Yet you are mine," he said.
"No—no!"
She sought to free her hand, but he kept it. "Look at me!" he said. "Do you remember that day in March—the day you saw me whipped like a dog?"
Involuntarily she raised her eyes to his. "Oh, don't!" she whispered, shuddering. "Don't!"
But he persisted. "You felt that thrashing far more than I did, though it made a murderer of me. You were furious for my sake. Did you never ask yourself why?" Then in a lower voice, bending towards her, "Do you think I didn't know the moment I saw your face above mine? Do you think I didn't feel the love in your arms, holding me up? Do you think it isn't in your eyes—even now?"
"Oh, hush!" she said again piteously. "Nap, you are hurting me. I cannot bear it. Even if it were so, love—true love—is a sacred thing—not to be turned into sin."
"Sin!" he said. "What is sin? Is it sin to fulfil the very purpose for which you were created?"
But at that she winced so sharply that he knew he had gone too far. It was characteristic of the man that he made no attempt to recover lost ground.
"I'm a wicked pagan no doubt," he said, with a touch of recklessness. "Everyone will tell you so. I fancy I've told you so myself more than once. Yet you needn't shrink as if I were unclean. I have done nothing that you would hate me for since I have known you."
He paused and seemed to listen, then very quietly released her hand. A curious expression flickered across his face as he did so, and a little chill went through her. It was like the closing of the furnace door.