She had sunk into a seat, and bent her head into her hand, not daring to meet the full, falcon gaze, flashing with deepest tenderness, that she knew was bent upon her.
“Speak again, Maude! Once more let me hear those precious words from your own sweet lips, Maude! Maude, sweetest and fairest, speak!”
He wreathed his arms around her, while he seemed breathing out his very soul as he aspirated her name.
“But you have not heard all, my lord. This secret—do you not wish to hear it?” she faintly said, without lifting her dark, beautiful eyes.
“Not unless it is your wish to tell it. I want to hear nothing but that you are my own.”
“Yet, when you hear it, my lord, you may reject the hand I have offered.”
“Never, never! Nothing under heaven could make me do that!”
“You speak rashly, Lord Ernest. Wait until you have heard all. I dare not accept the noble heart and hand you offer, without revealing the one great error of my youth.”
“You commit error, my beautiful saint? You, who are as perfect in soul as in body. Oh, Maude, I cannot believe it.”
“It is true, nevertheless, my lord. But oh, how shall I tell you? How can I confess what I have been—what I am?”