Luc made no reply; darkness lay on his brain as well as before his eyes. He felt his strength, almost his life, being drawn from him by the chill and the damp; it seemed worse than the snows of Bohemia. He realized how weak he had been since his illness at Eger; how even the burden of a child and the cold of a night in one of his native fields was almost beyond his endurance.
He turned towards the spot where Carola must be still seated.
“You are cold, Madame? Take my cloak—I am warm enough.”
“No—no!” she said sharply. “I have my own, and I have often slept out in an old thin shawl—I should be used to it.”
“And I,” answered Luc sadly—“I who was a soldier.”
He was unclasping his cloak with numb fingers when he heard her rise to her feet; she touched his shoulder.
“I am warm,” she said.
Her hand trembled down his arm, found his hand and held it. He let her clasp it between hers, which were, as she said, warm. The touch of her soft palms caused a wave of mingled anguish and pleasure to rise to his heart. She came closer; he felt her heavy cloak sweep his foot; the faint Eastern perfume he always associated with her crept into his nostrils; his head sunk slightly on his chest, and he shivered.
She drew his cold hand to her bosom. He felt, with a quickening of all his senses, the stiff smoothness of her satin gown, the straining of her breast against the silk cords, and even the hasty beating of her heart. She raised his hand, and he felt her throat, her chin, and finally her lips.
A soft and timid kiss was lightly pressed on his fingers—the kiss of a suppliant, of one who asks for mercy.