“Inarime!” I said again, and this time my voice dropped to a whisper.
Unconsciously she seemed drawn to me, and while our hands met and clasped, our eyes dwelt on each other in grave delight.
“You have not spoken to me, Inarime,” I said.
“Who are you?” she asked, as a wondering child might.
“Has your heart not told you, Inarime?”
Something like fear and humble pleading strove with the mastery of her proud restrained expression. It was so new and perilous to her, that she hardly knew to what she might not have silently pledged herself. She hastily withdrew her hands, but still her eyes rested on mine and sought solution in their depths.
“Oh, I am afraid,” she murmured, and a wave of intangible pain swept over her strong face.
“Not of me, Inarime; not of me,” I entreated, and drew near to gather her hands again.
Before either of us could realise or stay the volcanic influences that impelled us in an irresistible shock, my arms were round her and our lips were one.