He was turning from her, when Isabel sprang forward to him, caught him with both her arms round him, and held him so convulsively, that her hair sideways swept over him, and half concealed him.
“Pierre, if indeed my soul hath cast on thee the same black shadow that my hair now flings on thee; if thou hast lost aught for me; then eternally is Isabel lost to Isabel, and Isabel will not outlive this night. If I am indeed an accursing thing, I will not act the given part, but cheat the air, and die from it. See; I let thee go, lest some poison I know not of distill upon thee from me.”
She slowly drooped, and trembled from him. But Pierre caught her, and supported her.
“Foolish, foolish one! Behold, in the very bodily act of loosing hold of me, thou dost reel and fall;—unanswerable emblem of the indispensable heart-stay, I am to thee, my sweet, sweet Isabel! Prate not then of parting.”
“What hast thou lost for me? Tell me!”
“A gainful loss, my sister!”
“’Tis mere rhetoric! What hast thou lost?”
“Nothing that my inmost heart would now recall. I have bought inner love and glory by a price, which, large or small, I would not now have paid me back, so I must return the thing I bought.”
“Is love then cold, and glory white? Thy cheek is snowy, Pierre.”
“It should be, for I believe to God that I am pure, let the world think how it may.”