“I gave my hand to my friend.”
“You gave it to me for good.”
“No; I dared not; it is not mine.”
“It is mine,” said Beauchamp.
Renée pointed to the dots and severed lines and isolated columns of the rising city, black over bright sea.
“Mine there as well as here,” said Beauchamp, and looked at her with the fiery zeal of eyes intent on minutest signs for a confirmation, to shake that sad negation of her face.
“Renée, you cannot break the pledge of the hand you gave me last night.”
“You tell me how weak a creature I am.”
“You are me, myself; more, better than me. And say, would you not rather coast here and keep the city under water?”
She could not refrain from confessing that she would be glad never to land there.