“It was Home,” she said. “It is Home. Ah, do you not remember, belovèd? Never call yourself Luke Sparrow again. Never call yourself a foundling—you, whom I have found at last! I can tell you your name, if there be still need to tell it: Nigel Guido Cardross Tintagel.”
“What?” The blood leapt into his face. His outstretched hands almost met hers. “Are you—are you—my mother?”
“No, belovèd, no! Oh, Nigel, think again! Remember! You must remember!”
His hands clutched his knees. He looked full into her eyes; a long, steady gaze.
At last: “I remember nothing,” he said. “You will have to tell me. I would to God you were my mother. But, if that may not be, then—in Heaven’s name—what are you to me?”
Her voice was a pæan of triumphant joy.
“I am your wife.”
The man in the chair sat before her, petrified. His hands gripped his knees. Twice he essayed to speak; but no sound would pass his lips.
At length: “Great God!” he said: “Am I mad, or are you?”
“Nigel,” she said, “my dearest, you have come back to me. My boundless love, my desperate grief, my passionate prayers, have brought you back to me. My lover, my husband, my heart’s dearest, try to remember!”