I made no answer, for I had none ready. I did but gaze and gaze at her, until my heart was like to thump its way through my stout jacket. Of a sudden she looked up, wondering, perhaps, at the silence, and then, seeing my eyes fixed on her she dropped her lids while the color came into her cheeks like the blush of morn on the petals of a rose. I could bear it no longer. Starting to my feet, my sword clattered against the casement. Lucille caught her breath, and seemed to shrink away from me.
“Lucille,” I said.
She did not answer.
“Lucille,” I cried again, and the name went from my lips huskily, for my throat was parched and dry.
“Lucille,” I spoke for the third time.
“Yes, Captain Amherst,” she made reply.
“Lucille,” I cried, and then, with an effort, such as even the lifting of the great rock had not cost me, I blurted out, like a schoolboy:
“I love you, Lucille, better than I have ever loved before. Better than life itself.”
It was out now. I crossed the room, and, standing before her, I held out my hands, pouring out my story in warm words of love. I cannot recall now, nor could I a half hour afterward, what I said. Only I know that as I spoke of my passion, Lucille seemed in a fright, at first. And her face, that had been flushed, grew pale, and her fingers plucking at her gown, trembled. Then, when my rush of words had somewhat subsided, I approached nearer and nearer to her, until I could hear her breath, and see her bosom rise and fall. I stretched out my arms, and, not waiting to see if she said yea or nay, I clasped her to me, my warm kisses falling on her lips, her cheeks, her hands.
I could only repeat over and over again that one phrase, “I love you;” until, fearful that she might weary of that strain, I paused.