I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on.
“Try to put up with me,” I was saying, “try and bear with me a little.”
Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a fear of death.
“Catriona,” I cried, gazing on her hard, “is it a mistake again? Am I quite lost?”
She raised her face to me, breathless.
“Do you want me, Davie, truly?” said she, and I scarce could hear her say it.
“I do that,” said I. “O, sure you know it—I do that.”
“I have nothing left to give or to keep back,” said she. “I was all yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!” she said.
This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and conspicuous, we were to be seen there even from the English ship; but I kneeled down before her in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into that storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me. All thought was wholly beaten from my mind by the vehemency of my discomposure. I knew not where I was, I had forgot why I was happy; only I knew she stooped, and I felt her cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her words out of a whirl.
“Davie,” she was saying, “O, Davie, is this what you think of me? Is it so that you were caring for poor me? O, Davie, Davie!”