He laughed softly.
“I have sinned enough,” he said. “He will not fall.”
“Will the sin be less if you let him, in your despair, take his enemy’s life? This is madness. Armstrong, you cannot—you shall not go.”
He was silent.
“What am I to say to you again?” she pleaded. “You are like stone. Must I humble myself to you once more, and cast off all a woman’s modesty and dignity? Armstrong, weak, doting as it is, I tell you I forgive you, dear—only promise me that you will not go.”
He passed his hand across his eyes as he clung to the shelf to keep himself from falling, and said, in a low, dreamy voice—
“An insult to you—a degradation to me to take your pardon. No! Cornel, and once more, no. Now, if you have any feeling for me, leave me to myself, for I have much to do.”
“You will prepare to go?”
He remained stubbornly silent, with his eyes half-closed.
“Then,” she cried passionately, as she saw him sway gently to and fro, as if prior to falling helpless upon the floor, “I will save you in spite of all. You shall not give away your life like this. You are weak, half-delirious, and cannot command even your thoughts. You shall not go.”