"If you go," said Farallone, and his great voice trembled, "I die. You are everything. You know that. Would I have hit you if I hadn't loved you so—poor little cheek!" His voice became a kind of mumble.
"Let us go," said the bride, "if you love me."
"Not you," said Farallone, "while I live. I would not be such a fool. Don't you know that in a little while you'll be glad?"
"Is that your final word?" said the bride.
"It must be," said Farallone. "Are you not a gift to me from God?"
"I think you must be mad," said the bride.
"I am unalterable," said Farallone, "as God made me—I am. And you are mine to take."
"Do you remember," said the bride, "what you said when you gave me the revolver? You said that if ever I thought it best to shoot you—you would let me do it."
"I remember," said Farallone, and he smiled.