"Does it then repent you so much that for my sake you sent a bullet into that villain's shoulder?" said Fink. "What I now see looks less like love than hatred."
"I hate you?" cried the poor girl, hiding her face with her hands.
He took her hands, drew her to him, and pressed a kiss upon her lips. "Trust me, Lenore."
"Leave me! leave me!" cried Lenore, struggling; but her lips were pressed to his, and her arms twined around him; and, looking into his face with a passionate expression of love and fear, she gradually sank down at his feet.
Thoroughly moved, Fink stooped and raised her. "Mine you are, and I hold you fast," cried he. "With rifle and bullet I have bought your stormy heart. In the same breath you tell me sweet things and bitter. What, then, am I such a despot that a noble-minded woman should fear to come under my yoke? Just as you are, Lenore—resolute, bold, a little passionate devil—just so will I have you remain. We have been companions in arms, and so we shall continue to be. The day may return when we shall both raise our guns to our cheeks, and the people about us need natures more disposed to give than to take a blow. Were you not my heart's desire, were you a man, I should like to have you for my life's companion; so, Lenore, you will be to me not only a beloved wife, but a courageous friend, the confidante of all my plans, my best and truest comrade."
Lenore shook her head, but she clung to him firmly. "I ought to be your housewife," sighed she.
Fink caressingly stroked back her hair and kissed her burning brow. "Be content, sweetheart," said he, tenderly, "and make up your mind to it. We have been together in a fire strong enough to bring love to maturity, and we know each other thoroughly. Between ourselves, we shall have many a storm in our house. I am no easy-going companion, at least for a woman, and you will very soon find that will of yours again, the loss of which you are now lamenting. Be at rest, darling, you shall be as headstrong as of yore; you need not distress yourself on that account; so you may prepare for a few storms, but for hearty love and a merry life as well. I will have you laugh again, Lenore. You will have no need to make my shirts, and, if you don't like account-keeping, why, let it alone; and if you do sometimes give your boys a box on the ear, it will do our brood no harm. I think you will give yourself to me."
Lenore was silent, but she clung closer to his breast. Fink drew her away. "Come to our mother!" cried he.
Both bent over the bed of the invalid. A brightness passed over the pale face of the baroness as she laid her hands on Fink's head and gave him her blessing.
"She is still a child," said she. "It remains with you, my son, to make a good woman of her."