No one before had been able to rouse him from that terrible, death-like slumber. His eyes opened, and he smiled peacefully at her.
"My little wife!" he answered faintly.
She crept nearer. She put her arm beneath his head so that he rested like a child against her breast.
"I have come back," she said. "I have brought your papers and your honour. You are to be quite, quite happy. I will tell you everything——"
"Not now," he interrupted gently; "not now. I have so little time."
His voice was pitifully thin and broken. It was as though the great, powerful body had become inhabited by the soul of a child. She drew him closer to her with a movement of infinite tenderness.
"Only one thing—I did not leave you because I did not love you—or because of—any one else. Wolff, you must understand that. I was mad—the thought of war and my own people made me forget all that you were to me. But now I know, and you must know too. You shall not think so badly, so wickedly of me."
He shook his head.
"I think nothing bad of you, Nora."
"You know I love you?"