“I did not mean to wake you,” he said.
She started again and looked at him wildly, as if she fancied she had detected a chilliness in his manner; but his eyes undeceived her, and as he raised her hand to his lips, she let it rest there for a few moments, and then stole it round his neck.
“Tell me,” he said gently, “your wound?”
She shook her head softly.
“No,” she whispered; “let it rest. Talk of yourself. You will wait here two days, and then steal out at night and make your way down to the shore. You know the way!”
“If I do not you will guide me,” he said.
She looked at him keenly to see if he meant what he said, and then, reading the sincerity of his words in his frank eyes, she shook her head again.
“No,” she whispered. “You asked me of my wound. It is home. Humphrey Armstrong, this is to be my tomb!”
“What!” he cried. “Oh, no! no! no! You must live to bless me with your love!”
“Live to disgrace you with my love!”