"Irene, my Irene," said Oleah, in his low, thrilling tones, "this was my only hope. In peaceful times I might have pressed my suit as others do—I might have wooed and waited; but to wait now was to lose you. Will not my wife forgive me?" he cried, imploringly.
"This is no marriage—I am not your wife!" said Irene, in a low, steady voice. "Leave me! You have forfeited even a brother's claim. No, no; I will not listen to you!" she cried desperately, as Oleah came a step nearer. "You will not leave me, then! You will force me to defend myself!" As she spoke she snatched a pistol from his belt and leveled the weapon at his heart.
Oleah folded his hands. "Fire if you wish," he said calmly. "Death at your hands is preferable to life without your love."
She lowered the pistol, the flush faded from her face, her eyes grew misty with tears.
"If to love you is a crime, deserving death, then, indeed, you shall be my executioner; for never did mortal love as I love you."
She hesitated a moment, then laid the revolver on the table, and sinking into a chair burst into tears.
"Heaven forgive you!" she sobbed, "for the misery you have caused!"
"It is your forgiveness I want, my darling," he said. "I will leave you now since you bid me. To-morrow you shall be returned to your home, and I will never come to you save at your bidding."
She did not lift her bowed head. There was a moment's stillness, broken only by her sobs. Then Oleah took the pistol from the table, returned it to his belt, and left the room.