“Go!—Go!”
This was all she whisperingly cried. She kept repeating it over and over between her chattering teeth. As he wound his arms about her shivering form he found that she was dripping wet. Could it be that she had fallen into the moat? By what miracle of the gods, then, had she been saved? The dark waters were so deep—so deep!
“You are wet and cold! You have met with an accident?”
“No, no,” she said. “It was the honorable grass—so wet—so cold, like a lake. I crawled through it, on my hands and knees, close to the moat.”
“But why did you do it, why did you do it?” His voice was imploring.
“To come to you. To be with you—to—”
He clasped her closer, warmed to the soul by her words.
“Ah, then it is not true,” he cried, “and you do still love me, Fuji-wara?”
“Better than my soul. Better than my duty to the gods,” she whispered.
The sound of her voice was muffled. Her words literally sighed through her lips. He could not comprehend; he knew only that she loved him, had come to him, and now she was all water-wet, pale-eyed, and trembling as one who sleeps with fear. And because that strange voice hurt his soul, he covered her lips with his hand. She made no remonstrance, but sank into his arms, almost as if she had fainted. But looking down he saw her eyes were wide open, shining like dark stars. They startled him. They were like those of a dead woman. He shook her almost roughly in his fright.