“You speak harshly, St. Renan, and bitterly.”
“And if I do, have I not cause enough for bitterness and harshness?” he replied almost angrily.
“Not against me, Raoul.”
“I am not bitter against you, Melanie. And yet—and yet—”
“And yet what, Raoul?”
“And yet had you resisted three days longer, we might have been saved—you might have been mine—”
“I am yours, Raoul de St. Renan. Yours, ever and for ever! No one’s but only yours.”
“You speak but madness—your vow—the sacrament!”
“To the winds with my vow—to the abyss with the fraudful sacrament!” she cried, almost fiercely. “By sin it was obtained and sanctioned—in sin let it perish. I say—I swear, Raoul, if you will take me, I am yours.”
“Mine? Mine?” cried the young man, half bewildered. “How mine, and when?”