He put his arm around her, drawing her close, with all his feeble strength, and looking at her with hungry eyes.
“My darling!” he said tenderly, “’tis you—you in the flesh?—and you came to see me?—the beggar, the exile, the traitor—”
“Don’t, don’t!” cried Betty, in a passion of grief, “I never meant it—it was my tongue, my reckless, wicked tongue—oh, my lord, forgive me!”
He smiled; he was so weak that tears gathered in his eyes.
“What have I to forgive, ‘my own Rosaleen’?” he asked tenderly; “I am not worthy of you—I am, indeed, an exile and a vagrant, my queen, and no mate for you.”
“You are my husband,” Betty said, blushing divinely.
“Betty,” he whispered soft and low, “you have never kissed me!”
“I have never kissed any man, my Lord Clancarty,” she replied softly, her face radiant, “I will never kiss any man—but the one I love best!”
He looked at her silently, his eyes glowing, holding her closer.
“Betty,” he murmured, “do you love me?—your husband?”