He heard the call and, dropping the rifle, staggered towards her. He held out his arms to her and she checked her steps, studying his eyes as though to make sure he was sane. He stood motionless but there was a prayer in his silent lips, in his eyes, in his outstretched 313 arms. She took another little step towards him, then, without further hesitation, came to his side and placed her head upon his shoulder. He folded his arms over her heaving shoulders––he rested his cheek upon her black hair––he whispered her name again and again.
So they stood, Stubbs and the Priest both staring at them as at the central figures upon the stage, until she raised her head to look once more into his eyes. He saw her lips within a few inches of his own, but he dared not kiss them yet. It was odd––he had never in his life spoken an audible word of love to her––had never written of love to her––and yet he knew that she knew all that had been unsaid, even as he did. There had never been need of words with them. Love had been developed in the consciousness of each in silence and in loneliness, but had moved to this climax as surely and as inevitably as though foreordained. He had but to look down into her eyes now and all was said; she had but to look into his, even deadened as they were by fatigue, to read all her heart craved. Her breath came in little gasps.
“David––David, you have come for me again!”
“For the last time,” he answered.
“You are never going to let me go again, are you, David?”
“Never,” he answered fiercely.
“Ah! hold me tight, David.”
He drew her more firmly to him.
“Tighter! Tighter!” she whispered.