The two poor things stood trembling, though Dollard’s face gathered splendor.
“Claire, you are mine. You know that you are mine! This is love! O saints!”
He threw himself on his knees before her without a thought of any spectator, his sword clanking against the flags of the hearth.
“Monsieur——”
“Say ‘My husband!’”
“My husband,” she did whisper; and at that word he rose up and took her in his arms.
V.
JACQUES HAS SCRUPLES.