“No!”
“But, look at me.”
“I will look at you. Only take my hand. See the moon is getting whiter. The water there is like a pool of snakes, and then they struggle out, and roll over and over, and stream on lengthwise. I can see their long flat heads, and their eyes: almost their skins. No, my lover! do not kiss me. I lose my peace.”
Wilfrid was not willing to relinquish his advantage, and the tender deep tone of the remonstrance was most musical and catching. What if he pulled her to earth from that rival of his in her soul? She would then be wholly his own. His lover's sentiment had grown rageingly jealous of the lordly German. But Emilia said, “I have you on my heart more when I touch your hand only, and think. If you kiss me, I go into a cloud, and lose your face in my mind.”
“Yes, yes;” replied Wilfrid, pleased to sustain the argument for the sake of its fruitful promises. “But you must submit to be kissed, my darling. You will have to.”
She gazed inquiringly.
“When you are married, I mean.”
“When will you marry me?” she said.
The heir-apparent of the house of Pole blinked probably at that moment more foolishly than most mortal men have done. Taming his astonishment to represent a smile, he remarked: “When? are you thinking about it already?”
She answered, in a quiet voice that conveyed the fact forcibly, “Yes.”