“For shame,” she whispered. “They are burning for shame that you are so little of a man.”
He laughed, his lips by her ear. “Beloved, do you think I would die without kissing your lips? Honestly, beloved, could you expect it?”
In the darkness he could just see the pale mask of her face and the shining, savage pools of her eyes, and he kissed first one and then the other. She was very still.
“Die?” she whispered.
He would have laughed again, but he fancied that maybe too much laughter would not become his situation, would appear like bravado. But he would have liked to show her he was happy, and why he was happy. A vain man, he had realised that he was contemptible: therefore it was good to die. Loving as he had never loved before, he was unloved: therefore it was good to die.
He told her how he had been warned that the cock on St. James’s tower had crowed thrice that dawn. And then he was amazed, for as he made to rise he could not. He cried out his wonder.
He cried out his despair.
She whispered: “Be still!”
Her arm was tight about his shoulder, and that was why his happiness had left him like a startled bird. He sobbed: “Child, for pity’s sake! It’s too late now. Let me die in peace. To have died without your love was blessedly easy. A moment ago I was happy.”