“You are mad!” shrieked Delia, clinging to him. “The house has only a few minutes to stand—they have gunpowder.”
He pushed her aside.
“Then get you into the garden,” he answered, pointing to the library door. “There is time for that.”
“Will you leave me? Will you go to your death?”
“My life is of no moment,” he said grimly, “I shall not leave mourners—”
She caught hold of him anew.
“I love you, I love you, and you shall not leave me. I love you—I love you.”
He gave a little laugh.
“’Tis a strange affection, mistress—it has done the work of hate—let go of me.”
He twisted his arm free of her, his eyes shone curiously.