For an instant their eyes staid together.
That was a memorable instant for Elias Bach-arach. A great wave of emotion took away his breath, made his body quiver, his head swim, as if with vertigo. He tried to speak. His tongue lay paralyzed in his mouth.
Suddenly she looked down; and a scarlet blush suffused her throat and cheeks.
He leapt forward, fell upon his knees before her, caught her hand, and whispered—a tense, eager whisper, that clove the air like a flame—“Christine—my darling!”
She drew her hand away. She trembled from head to foot.
“Don't be afraid, my darling. Don't tremble,” he whispered.
But she did not cease to tremble. She neither raised her eyes, nor spoke. Her blush had died away, leaving her face very pale. Even her lips had lost their color.
“Christine,” he whispered, “I could not help it. I love you. I could not keep it secret, Christine.”
Shrinking from him, deeper into her chair, “Don't—please don't,” she pleaded, in a weak, frightened voice.
Still in a whisper: “I could not help it. I—I had to tell you. Oh, why do you shrink away from me, like that, and tremble? Is my love hateful to you?”