"Why don't you tell the truth? Why do you lie?"
"No," this time the word was hardly audible, and she tried to impress it by shaking her head.
He made a step toward her and seized one of her hands. She tried to tear it away and flattened herself against the rock, panting, her face gone white as the alkaline patches of the desert.
"You don't love him. You never did."
She shook her head again, gasping. "Let me out of here. Let go of me."
"You liar," he whispered. "You love me."
She could not answer, her knees shaking, the place blurring on her sight. Through a sick dizziness she saw nothing but his altered face. He reached for the other hand, spread flat against the stone, and as she felt his grasp upon it, her words came in broken pleading:
"Yes, yes, it's true. I do. But I've promised. Let me go."
"Then come to me," he said huskily and tried to wrench her forward into his arms.
She held herself rigid, braced against the wall, and tearing one hand free, raised it, palm out, between his face and hers.