He knows, without seeing it, that her trembling hand makes a half-motion to go out to him at those kind-sounding words, but it is drawn back again before the action has passed much beyond the stage of a project.
The wind has fallen. With how almost disagreeable a strength does the sharp and pungent smell of the innumerable asphodels assail the nostrils. The light grows lower. Dares he? Has he the steady selfless valour that will be needed to fight through many years by the side of this forlorn creature against an enemy uglier—and, oh! how much more potent!—than any of the fierce forest creatures in contest with which he has so often lightly perilled his life? Dares he? He has never been lacking in self-reliance—been, perhaps, too little apt to blench at the obstacles strewn in his life-path. Is he going to blench now? Whether it be to his credit or his shame, the answer does not come all at once. Dares he? The response comes at last—comes slowly, comes solemnly, yet comes certainly:
"Yes."
He can never again laugh at Byng for his tears, for he is undoubtedly crying himself now.
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"—he cannot get further than that at first—"you—you are the worst-used woman in the world! and I—I have not the least desire to see the Escurial!"