"Margaret Hayley, we separate then to-morrow," he said. "This may be and no doubt will be the last time that we shall speak together without listeners. I have something to say that must be spoken. Will you hear me?"
She caught him suddenly by the arm, with a motion like that of one warning or checking another on the brink of a precipice—like that she had used the day before under such very different circumstances,—and said:
"Oh, do not!—do not!"
"What?"
"Do not say words that must separate us instead of bringing us nearer to each other!"
"And would that grieve you?"
"On my soul—yes!"
Another spark to the magazine. It exploded. Horace Townsend had caught Margaret Hayley's hand and his eye literally flashed fire into hers, while his brown cheek mantled with the blood that could no longer be restrained.
"I must speak, Margaret Hayley, and you must listen. I love you! There is not a thought in my mind, not a hope in my soul, that is not yours. Does that separate us?"
She did not draw away her hand, and yet it returned no answering pressure to his. Her head was bent down so that he could not see her face, and her words were very few and very sad: