“Oh, Ireland—Ireland and I!” But even at that strange cry she never stirred. “It’s you—you who are ruined, my Magic—and it’s I who have done it, driving you to this ugly madness.” He held her as though he would never let her go, sheltering the bowed golden head with his hand. “Though I forgive you a thousand thousand times, how will you forgive yourself, my little Love? You who would not hurt a flower, where will you turn when you see what you have done?”
He could feel her tears on his hand; she was weeping piteously, like a terrified child.
“Oh, you do love me, you do love me! I was so frightened—I thought that you would never love me.”
He held her closer, infinitely careful of that shining fragility.
“I love nothing else.”
“Not Ireland?”
He closed his hunted eyes, shutting out Memory.
“I hated Ireland,” wept the small voice fiercely, “because you loved her so.”
“Hush, hush, my Heart.”
“But you do—you do love me best?”