“No—my eyes are too tired,” she replied hastily.
“Mademoiselle, I am going to strike a light; but first—may I kiss your hand?”
He heard her rise. The fire was dying out and he saw the long gleam of her gown in the faint beams, then her shape came between him and the glow and her hand rested on his. He kissed her fingers, then said, “You would have despised me if I had married you,”—his voice strengthened—“but now you will think of me kindly.”
She drew away from him, and seemed to be absorbed and lost in the unbearable darkness.
“I want to see you,” said Luc between his teeth.
He took the flint and tinder from his pocket and struck it with a steady hand. As the flame flared up he strained his dim eyes across it to gaze at her. He saw her in an atmosphere of fire—the air all about her was red. Her face was more beautiful than he cared to realize; her eyes looked straight at him across the flame, and they were strained, wide, and dark with terror.
The still burning tinder fell from his fingers; he put his foot on it. A voice he would not have recognized as hers came out of the obscurity.
“You—you are not—much changed.”
Luc laughed.
“Heaven bless you,” he said sweetly.