“O God! O God! O God!” he groaned. “And must I lose her!”
“Why lose me, Barney?” she said, gliding swiftly to him and dropping to her knees beside him. “Why lose me?” she repeated, taking his head to her heaving bosom.
The touch of pity aroused his scorn of himself and braced his manhood. Not for himself must he think now, but for her. The touch of self makes weak, the cross makes strong. What matter that he was giving up his life in that hour if only she were helped? He rose, lifted her from her knees, set her in a chair, and went back to his place.
“Barney, let me come to you,” she pleaded. “I'm sorry I went—”
“No,” he said, his voice quiet and steady, “you must stay there. You must not touch me, else I cannot say what I must.”
“Barney,” she cried again, “let me explain.”
“Explain? There is no need. I know all you would say. These people are nothing to you or to me. Let us forget them. It matters not at all that you went with them. I am not angry. I was at first insane, I think. But that is all past now.”
“What is it, Barney?” she asked in a voice awed by the sadness and despair in the even, quiet tone.
“It is this,” he replied; “we have come to the end. I must not hold you any more. For two years I have known. I had not the courage to face it. But, thank God, the courage has come to me these last two days.”
“Courage, Barney?”