Her voice was uncertain, and he imprisoned her outstretched palm. Then, with his free hand, he removed her mask. She made no resistance, she did not even draw away from him. His heart leaped wildly at the face he saw; for it was more perfect even than he had imagined. The eyes were deep brown, the skin was smooth and olive-hued, the lips were red and pouting with embarrassment. She met his hungry gaze with a flaming blush of defiance; then she smiled pathetically, and without further delay he drew her to him and kissed her once, twice, again and again, until she lay, spent and shaken, in his arms. After a time, she said, wonderingly:
"What miracle is this? I have always hated you; I—hate you now when I think of the evil you have done. I shall continue to hate you."
"I hardly believe that."
"It is very sad that this has come to pass; it means nothing but unhappiness."
"How so?"
"Can you ask? You—a refugee, with a price upon your head!" She shuddered and buried her face against his shoulder. "Why have you made me love you?"
"It was fate, my little witch. If you will trust me, all will come out right in the end. But there is a great deal here that I don't understand. For instance, how came you two to be in want?"
"Surely you know as well as I."
"I do not."
"But I wrote—"