"Yes, it is true!" she answered between her teeth.
His strong hand rested upon hers and held it with a gentleness which paralyzed her strength.
"If it is true, then the time has come!" he said. "The hour has struck which God ordained for us both. Beatrice, I may tell you now what you have surely known since the day we stood together before the altar—I love you. You are the first and last woman in my world." His voice pierced through to her senses through waves of roaring, confusing sound. Her heart beat till it became unbearable torture. "Do you remember that second evening?" he went on. "The priest tried to stop you at the gate of the sanctuary, but I spoke to him, and he let you pass. You asked me what I had said, but I would not tell you—not then. Now I may: 'This is the woman whom God has given me—'"
She flung his hand violently from her.
"You must not say that!" she cried, with desperate resolution. "You must not say that sort of thing—to me."
"Why should I not? I love you."
"You must not love me. I—I am to be Captain Stafford's wife."
"Beatrice!" His cry of incredulous pain drove her to frantic measures.
"It is true. I swear it."
Then it was all over. He made no protest. He rode by her side as though he had been turned to stone, rigidly upright, his hand hanging lifeless at his side, his face expressionless. She felt that she had struck right at his life's vitality—that she had killed him. Yet it was not remorse that blinded her till the white road became a shimmering blur—it was a frightful personal pain which was hers and hers alone. Neither spoke. They passed a crowd of natives returning to the Bazaar. They salaamed, but Nehal Singh made no response, as was his wont. He did not seem to see them. Mechanically he guided his horse through the bowing crowd. The silence became unbearable. She had flippantly told herself that as long as he did not make a "scene" she would be satisfied. He had not made a "scene." From the moment that she had made her final declaration he had not spoken, and now she was praying that he would say something to her—anything, she did not care what, only not that terrible accusatory silence. At last, in desperation, she began to make it up with him as she had planned—in an incoherent, helpless way.