Gustav looked his humble gratitude, and then went out on the terrace, which was nearly dry after the recent deluge. The wet leaves gleamed under their clear burden, while the damp air brought out all the exquisite odours of hillside and valley. Gustav could have almost laughed aloud in the surety of triumph. What could it matter to him the decision of two cold-blooded old people, who perhaps never knew the mighty force of love, or, having known it, had completely forgotten it? He allow himself to be calmly divorced from his mate, and sit down tamely upon the sudden ruins of his life! Such mad acceptance of the control of others might be befitting a phlegmatic Teuton, but it was quite incompatible with the fire of an Oriental. And, then, Inarime could not forsake him; and this theory of race antagonism would be shivered on the first word of his that should fall on her ears. It would mean only a little delay; some indecision, and perhaps some tears; and then for them success lay ahead. Oh, why does nature give youth its volcanic impulse and its ardent impetuosity! Strife, struggle, delay! These but gave an added impetus to his passion.
Flaming clouds shot from the west, heralds to proclaim the sun’s departure in one burst of splendour. They touched the plane and pepper-trees with light, and spurred the lagging birds into song. A breeze, like a sigh after protracted sobbing, swept from the east, and met the moist earth with a throb of promise. It brushed past over Reineke’s hot cheek, and fanned his thrilled senses into exultation. A silent shout of defiance from the invisible host that march in the wake of triumphant love went up, and Reineke felt his heart impervious to doubt. He heard a step, a light, quick step that he should have recognised in a thousand, and it lashed him with insufferable force.
“Inarime! stay! One moment, beloved,” he cried, in a voice of prayer.
That prayer was her command. She stood still, but did not dare advance lest answering passion should fling her in transport into his arms.
They stood thus, trifling with the eternal moments, their aching glances rivetted as under the spell of enchantment. Then he moved towards her, and her hands met his in silence.
“You are mine, Inarime,” he said, in a whisper. “Nothing now can alter that.”
“Nothing.”
It was hardly speech. Her lips moved, but it was her eyes that spoke.
“Say it aloud, beloved, that all may hear it, and know that you promised,—the earth, the trees, the birds and the departing sun. Aloud! Aloud!”
“I am afraid! Can I know? Who are you? Tell me, tell me.”