“It is not.”
“You are not the baron?” cried Amy.
“No; I will swear it if you wish.”
“Who, then, are you?”
“Shall I confess?”
“Yes, I entreat you.”
“Remember, you command me to speak.”
“I do. Who are you?”
“Your lover.”
The words were breathed into her ear as softly as ardently, but they startled her so much she could find no reply, and, throwing himself down before her, Casimer poured out his passion with an impetuosity that held her breathless.