"Pierre!" And then, with more assurance, "Pierre, it is true I haven't much to offer you. But such as it is—such as it is—and you asked for it once, remember—will you not take it?"
"Meaning?" he said again, and his voice was hoarse and low. It seemed to come through closed lips.
"Meaning," she answered him quickly and passionately, "that revolutionist as you have been, tyrant as you are, you have managed somehow to bind me to you. Oh, I was a fool—a fool—not to marry you long ago at Maritas even though I hated you. I might have known that you would conquer me in the end."
"Has it come to that?" said Pierre, and there was a queer break in his voice that might have been laughter. "And have you never asked yourself what made me a revolutionist—and a tyrant?"
"Never," she murmured.
"Must I tell you?" he said. "Will you believe me if I do?"
She turned her face fully to him, no longer fearing to meet that piercing scrutiny before which she had so often quailed. "Was it for my sake?" she said.
He met her look with eyes that gleamed as steel gleams in red firelight.
"How else could I have saved you?" he said. "How else could I have been in time?"
"Oh, but you should have told me!" she said. "You should have told me!"