"In short, Pilar—I must—we shall have—"
"I will not help you. Finish—you shall say the word."
"We shall have to part, Pilar."
"Wretch!" The cry wrenched itself from her breast.
Wilhelm rose and prepared to leave the room. But at the same instant she had rushed to him, and clinging wildly to him, she cried, beside herself with anguish:
"Don't go, Wilhelm, don't be angry with me. You don't know what I feel—you are torturing me to death."
Her sobs were so violent that she could not keep upon her feet, and sank on the floor in front of him. He lifted her up and set her on a chair, and his own eyes were wet as he said:
"I am not suffering less than you, Pilar, but the cup of bitterness must be drunk."
"You do not love me," she moaned. "You have never loved me."
"Do not say that, Pilar. I have loved you, but it is our ill-luck—"