"Damaris—O Damaris!" says I, kissing her sweet fingers, "Look now, there is question hath oft been on my lips yet one I have it dared to ask."
"Ask me now, Martin."
"'Tis this ... could it ... might it perchance be possible you should learn with time ... mayhap ... to love me a little? Nay, not a little, not gently nor with reason, but fiercely, mightily, beyond the cramping bounds of all reason?"
Now here she laughed, a small, sad laugh with no mirth in it, and leaned her brow against my arm as one very weary.
"O foolish Martin!" she sighed. "How little you have seen, how little guessed—how little you know the real me! For I am a woman, Martin, as you are a man and joy in it. All these months I have watched you growing back to your nobler self, I have seen you strive with yourself for my sake and gloried in your victories, though ... sometimes I have ... tempted you ... just a little, Martin. Nay, wait, dear Martin. Oft-times at night I have known you steal forth, and hearkened to your step going to and fro out in the dark, and getting to my knees have thanked God for you, Martin."
"'Twas not all in vain, then!" says I, hoarsely, bethinking me of the agony of those sleepless nights.
"Vain?" she cried, "Vain? 'Tis for this I do honour you—"
"Honour—me?" says I, wincing.
"Above all men, Martin. 'Tis for this I—"
"Wait!" says I, fronting her all shamefaced. "I do love you so greatly I would not have you dream me better than I am! So now must I tell you this ... I stole to you once ... at midnight ... you were asleep, the moonlight all about you and looked like an angel of God."