“Leave me, Charles,” she stammered in confusion, “do leave me!”
But he only clasped her tighter to his heart, and covered her face with burning kisses.
“Anna, I love you—Anna, I have found you again!” he exclaimed, passionately, “and never, never again shall I leave you.”
“But, Charles, do have pity on me,” pleaded the poor girl in faltering accents, as she again strove to free herself from his embrace, “yours I can, I may—never be.”
“Anna,” cried he huskily, as he pressed her closer and closer still to his breast.
She probably misunderstood his action—at all events she continued very, very sadly: “No, Charles, your wife I can never be—and—oh, you love me too well, do you not?—to have any other thoughts.”
The poor girl said these words in a voice so unutterably sad that van Nerekool felt at once that he had unwittingly wounded her modesty. At once he released her, though he still kept his arm round her waist.
“But, Anna,” said he, “why should you not become my wife?”
“No, never!” replied she resolutely. “Not then, and not now. I have given you my reason very fully. Now let me go.”
“But, Anna,” he persisted, “since that time circumstances have entirely changed.”