He knelt before her, took the hands he loved so well into his own and pressed upon them his fevered lips.
"I do not understand—" he moaned.
She regarded him fixedly.
"I am another's wife—"
His head drooped.
"When my eyes first met yours they begged that my love for you might find response in your heart," he said, still holding on to those marvellous white hands. "Did you not accept my worship?"
She neither encouraged nor repulsed him by word or gesture. And he covered her hands with burning kisses. After his passionate outburst had died to silence she spoke quietly, tremulously.
"Tristan," she began, and paused as if she were summoning courage to do that which she must. "Tristan, this may not be."
"I love you," he sobbed. "I love you! This is all I know! All I shall ever know. How can I support life without you? heart of my heart—soul of my soul?—What must I do, to win you for my own—to give you happiness?"
A negative gesture came in response.