“It will not: I shall have help.”
“What help?”
No answer now, but the shadow of a smile seemed to float across the silent lips as if reflected from a joy too deep and tender for speech to tell.
“Speak! what is this happiness? The hope of freedom?”
“It will come.”
“How?”
“When you die.”
He caught his breath, and for an instant seemed daunted by the truth he had evoked; for it was terrible, so told, so heard.
“You hate me, then?” he whispered, almost fiercely, in the ear that never shrank from his hot lips.
“I doubt and dread you.”