“Yes: I must. You do not know,” he whispered hoarsely, as he tried to unlace her arms from about him.
“Yes, I know that you were about to commit self-murder, and you shall not do this thing,” cried Mary wildly.
“Would you see me dragged away to a living death?” he said. “Listen—do you not hear? Loose me, I say!”
He spoke almost savagely now, as he struggled to get the enlacing hands away; but, as he tore at them, Mary clung the closer, drawing herself more tightly to his breast as her face approached his, and her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and she cried as wildly:
“Then kill me too!” He ceased struggling to look at the flushed, love-illumined face that approached his, unable to grasp the whole meaning of what was said, mentally incapable of interpreting the words and looks, the whole scene being like the phantasm of some delirious fit.
A louder crack of the baize door aroused him, and he started away.
“Don’t you hear?” he whispered. “Don’t you hear?”
“Yes,” cried Mary, still clinging to him; “I hear, and it is help.”
“No, no!” he whispered; “it is those men. Ah, I am too late!”
For at that moment there was a sharp rustling of the bushes, and a man ran up over the lawn, to pause bewildered at the scene before him.