"Yes," he answered. "I am a man. And you, a woman, are dependent on me and I am taking you into perils that I can only guess at, dangers that lie absolutely in the hands of chance. For which of us is it easiest to be brave, you or me?"
Her eyes dropped from his.
"What do you hint?" she temporized. "For me—why should it be easier for me? The—the cases are equal, are they not?"
"No," he said quietly. "No, Claire. And you know that they are not. Not because you are a woman, but because you are the woman; because you are you—and I—am myself—and love you!"
And this time there was a note in his voice which she had not recognized before, vibrant, unrestrained, passionate. The thrill of it pulsed through her; she felt it in her nerves, her very veins. She flinched from it, she gave a tiny pant; the womanly instinct of evasion made her draw back from him a startled pace.
"Isn't that the truth?" he asked, his voice hoarse with its intensity. "Isn't it easy to be brave for oneself alone—easier than to be brave for another?"
She stood looking at him, strangely, doubtfully, the shadow of dumb entreaty in her eyes. But in her heart other shadows were fading to disclose realities hitherto faintly suspected and half defined. Was this the true meaning of the fear which had suddenly been born in the moment of hope? Was it for his sake she paused upon the threshold of danger? The protective instinct which she had recognized in herself with wonder—had that grown into something more? Was it death with him or life without him that she pictured as the worst that Fate could give?
The silence grew in tension but she could not break it. What was only then revealing itself to her—could she reveal it to him? She drew back another pace, she held out her hand as if she warded off the inevitable.
"I cannot tell," she said weakly. "But—but I think I could be brave for myself—alone."
He made an exclamation, his arms went out to possess her, his eyes shone—