Some deep-cherished, deferred resolve reasserted itself.
"But I cannot—I cannot go on until you know all, Rudyard, and then you may not wish to go on," she said. Her voice shook, and the colour went from her lips. "I must be honest now—at last, about everything. I want to tell you—"
He got to his feet. Stooping, he raised her, and looked her squarely in the eyes.
"Tell me nothing, Jasmine," he said. Then he added in a voice of finality, "There is nothing to tell." Holding both her hands tight in one of his own, he put his fingers on her lips.
"A fresh start for a long race—the road is clear," he said firmly.
Looking into his eyes, she knew that he read her life and soul, that in his deep primitive way he understood her as she had been and as she was, and yet was content to go on. Her head drooped upon his breast.
A trumpet-call rang out piercingly sweet across the valley. It echoed and echoed away among the hills.
He raised his head to listen. Pride, vision and power were in his eyes.
"It's all before us still, Jasmine," he said again.
Her fingers tightened on his.