She touched his neck lightly with her hand, the dear soft hand he longed to hold and kiss—the hand which he had taken and almost flung from him when he first heard of her marriage.
“The fever has gone,” she added. “You will soon be all right.”
“I’m all right now,” he insisted. “I feel quite fit. It’s awfully good of you to have bothered, but you ought not to have sat up; it wasn’t necessary.”
“I wasn’t sure,” she returned, “how badly you were hurt. I didn’t realise at first that you were hurt. I am sorry... I want you to—forgive that injury.”
“Oh, that!” he said, and thought of the greater injury Holman had contrived. “I ran that risk with my eyes open. I’m not counting that.”
She fell on her knees beside the bed and laid her two hands with swift impulsiveness upon his breast.
“I know,” she said, speaking very quickly and in lowered tones, her face close to his, the soft eyes holding his eyes filled with an eager pleading which it was difficult to resist—“I know you and Heinrich are enemies... For that matter we are enemies—you and I—”
“No,” he interrupted sharply... “No... You and I, enemies! ... Honor...”
“Ah!” she breathed softly, and the hands on his breast pressed more firmly. “I didn’t mean that—not actually. Always in my heart I’ve known that couldn’t be. You’re my—”
“Lover,” he interjected hoarsely.