"Ay," says I, "I promise you I'll be master of those mountains in a week."
"Benet," says she earnestly, "you must grant me a favor."
"With all my soul," says I.
"Then promise me you will never again essay to pass those terrible mountains. Promise!" says she. "And this also—that you will not approach that pestilent marsh, for I do think 'tis the fetid mists from the corruption there which has thrown you into this sickness."
"You ask too much of me," says I, "for how, but by one of these ways, can I hope to carry you hence? You have not reflected on that."
"Yes, I have," says she quietly. "I know that I am asking you to stay with me in the captivity to which our fortunes have brought us. Have we not sought by all the means in our power to escape? If Providence willed us to go hence, should we be thus cruelly rebuffed? Is it not better, Benet, to live here together than to perish singly? Oh, I cannot bear the thought of that. To be left alone—no one to speak to—no voice to cheer me! Have we been unhappy? Can we ever be without comfort, striving each to make the other happy? We may yet improve our cabin: the summer is at hand."
"Say not another word," says I; "I ask no more than to continue as we have lived." Indeed, I was like to have become light-headed again with the prospect revealed to me and the overflow of joy in my heart; and this tumult of emotion threw me back again, not yet being quit of my fever, so that I lay down exhausted in a kind of lethargy, from which I could not arouse myself even to taste the food from my dear lady's hand, which she has prepared for me. Nay, towards evening I felt as if my last hour had come for weakness, and when she, kneeling by my side, laid her sweet, cool hand upon my head as before, asking me how I did, 'twas with much ado I could open my eyes to reply by a look that I was very easy in my mind, as indeed I was, suffering no sort of pain, but only a very sweet dreaminess to think she was to be my companion always. So I lay with my drowsiness growing on me, never moving a hand-stir till the moon rose and shone upon me through the mouth of the cavern, where doubtless I looked like one dead, as I think, for my dear lady, still kneeling beside me, began to weep softly, which, though I heard it, I could find no check by any hopeful sign, because of my heaviness. Then, taking my hand and bending low, she murmurs with a broken voice, and such disconsolate tones as were enough to move the heart of the dead:
"You won't leave me, Benet dear—you won't leave me!"
And at that I managed to open my eyes and say "No"; therewith making bold to lift her hand a little. Then she, seeing what I would be at, aided me, so that I laid her lovely hand on my mouth and kissed it.
So, animated with a new vigor, and a sturdy determination that I would not yield to this faintness, but would master it for her sake, I contrived to ask her if she would make me a potion of those herbs the Ingas had given us, which I thought would do me good.