"She was still very pale, and showed her weakness by the tremulousness of her walk.
"'You are worse than you'd have me believe,' I said.
"'No,' she replied, 'I am not ill, and'—she hesitated, and then resumed in a firmer voice—'I haven't been ill. I lied to you yesterday.'
"I stared at her in amazement.
"'Yes,' she repeated, 'I lied, because I had not courage to tell the truth. I am pale, and my eyes are red, because I wept so much, and was so miserable during the last week. I've a great deal to say to you, and entreat of you to listen to me quietly.'
"We seated ourselves on the great stone at the foot of the red cross.
"'I don't know,' she began in a clear firm voice, 'who told my parents that I was in the habit of meeting you here every day, and it doesn't much matter who it was. I should have been certain to have told them myself some time, for I saw no harm in what I had done. But one day lately, when I went home, my father received me with vehement reproaches, and with words ... with words.... I will not repeat them, for they were very cruel and unjust. He said that I had forgotten my honor and my duty; he reminded me of the man to whom I am betrothed, and besought me to beware of you, for you were an unbeliever, and would tempt me to evil. His anger did not frighten me, but that did; for something all at once seemed to tell me why I had gone so regularly to the ruins, and why your words and looks made me so happy. Now—I know the truth. And when my father entreated me not to shame him, and to swear a holy oath that I would neither see nor speak to you again, I could not do it. If God and all the angels in heaven had commanded me to take that oath, I couldn't have done it—it would have seemed desecration. I bore my father's anger and my mother's tears, because I knew that I ... that I loved you....'
"I would have spoken, but she raised her hand to stay me, and continued:
"'When I first knew the truth I was filled with horror—I could not understand myself; and yet in spite of all that I felt happy. I saw the grief and despair that my conduct brought upon my parents, but, even to please them, I could not remain engaged to Chaim. The world still believes that I am, but I really belong to you. That is the reason why I could not help coming to see you yesterday in secret. Then I saw both in your words and looks that you loved me as really as I loved you. And now I ask you what is to be done? what is to be the end of all this?'
"I did not hear the sadness of every tone of her voice, because I would not hear it—my heart was so full of joy unspeakable.