"Tell me about it, Jan."
"That was all—I ran."
"You wouldn't run as fast for me now, would you?"
He looked at her boldly, and saw that there was not half of the brilliant flush in her cheeks.
"I ran for you, just now—and you didn't like it," he replied.
"I don't mean that." She looked up at him, and her fingers tightened round his own. "Away back—years and years and years ago, Jan—you went out to fight the plague, and nearly died in it, for me. Would you do that much again?"
"I would do more, Mélisse."
She looked at him doubtfully, her eyes searching him as if in quest of something in his face which she scarce believed in his words. Slowly he rose to his feet, lifting her with him; and when he had done this he took her face between his two hands and looked straight into her eyes.
"Some day I will do a great deal more for you than that, Mélisse, and then—"
"What?" she questioned, as he hesitated.