“Madam,” he said gently, after a miserable silence, “give me your hand just once in parting, and I shall consider that the climax to a life that never was unhappy. For your courage, madam, is the sweetest memory I have; and I mean to bear it ever.”
“No, no,” I said, while my tears broke forth again, “do not afflict me with farewells. They are more than I can suffer. Oh, my lad, I cannot let you go like this! My life begins and ends with you.”
“But for you, my fair, sweet lady,” he replied, “I could receive death easily. But I can rejoice that I’ve known you, and that you have been my friend. And now it were better that I took my leave, for the longer that we are together the sharper will the separation be.” I heard a half-checked groan escape him. Afterwards he said: “Oh, what a loveliness grief hath lent you! Never did you look so beautiful before to-day.”
“Yes,” I sobbed, “you always said you liked ’em clinging.”
“Let us say good-bye,” he whispered. “At least, let us have done with this.”
“Child, be brave,” I recommended him, with a depth in irony that it was well he could not fathom.
“I blame you for my cowardice,” he said.
There was a quiver in his face that even he could not conceal. I felt almost happy when I saw it, for it told me that at last even the untameable was tamed.
“You do not want to die?” I asked him, softly.
“No,” he stammered, “I do not want to die.”