“It is too late,” she said, and he felt her hand tremble in his grasp.
“And leave you?” he cried. “I would sooner die!”
“Then you do love me?” she cried wildly, as she half rose from the altar, but sank back.
“Love you!” he cried passionately. “I have fought with it, I have battled with it till I have been nearly mad! Love you, Mary, my brave, true heroine! I love you with all my heart!”
She uttered a wild cry of joy as he threw himself upon his knees and clasped her to his heart, his face buried in her breast and her two arms clung tightly round his neck, as she uttered a low moan of mingled joy and pain.
“Love you!” he whispered, as he raised his face, and his lips sought hers; “my darling! words will not tell my love! Come, what is the world to us? You are my world, my own, my love! Come!”
She clung to him passionately for a few moments.
“At last!” she said softly, as if to herself; “the love of one true noble man! Ah!”
A low deep sigh escaped her, and then, as if roused to a sense of her position, she thrust him back and listened.
“Hark!” she said, as a low shout arose. “They are coming back—they will be here soon! Quick! lose no time! You must escape!”