The hand which Despard held trembled.
“If you would be happier,” said she.
“Would you be glad if I could conquer this love of mine, and meet you again as coolly as a common friend?”
“I want you to be happy, Lama,” she replied. “I would suffer myself to make you happy.”
She was weeping. Despard folded her in his arms.
“This once,” said he, “the only time, Little Playmate, in this life.”
She wept upon his breast.
“{Greek: Teleutaion aspasmon domen}” said Despard, murmuring in a low voice the opening of the song of the dead, so well known, so often song, so fondly remembered—the song which bids fare-well to the dead when the friends bestow the “last kiss.”
He bent down his head. Her head fell. His lips touched her forehead.
She felt the beating of his heart; she felt his frame tremble from head to foot; she heard his deep-drawn breathing, every breath a sigh.