She thought that he was tormented by a doubt that she would not be faithful to him if he died. She stooped and kissed him.
'My own, I would sooner be faithless to you in your life than after death. Surely you know me well enough to know that at the least?'
He was silent. A great sigh struggled from his breast and escaped his pale lips like a parting breath.
'Kiss me again,' he murmured; 'kiss me again, whilst——That gives me life,' he said, as he drew her head down upon his bosom, where his heart throbbed labouredly. A little while later he fell asleep. He slept some hours. When he awoke he was consumed by a nameless fear.
'Is your cousin gone?' he asked.
She told him that it was one o'clock in the same night; she had not written yet.
'Let him stay,' he said feverishly. 'He shall not think I fear him. Do you hear me? Let him stay.'
The words seemed to her the causeless caprice of a jealousy magnified and distorted by the weakness of fever. She strove to answer him calmly. 'He shall go or stay as you please,' she assured him. 'What does it matter, dear, what Egon does? You always speak of Egon. You have never spoken of the children once.'
She wanted to distract his thoughts. She was pained to think how deep, though unspoken, his antagonism to her cousin must have been, that now in his feebleness it—was the one paramount absorbing thought.
A great sadness came upon his face as she spoke; his lips trembled a little.