“Hang it all!” he exclaimed, forcing a wry smile. “I act like an unbaked fool! You’ve gone to my head, Palla, and I behave like a drunken kid.... I’ll buck up. I’ve got to. I’m not the blithering, balmy, moon-eyed, melancholy ass you think me–––”
Her quick laughter rang clear, and his echoed it, rather uncertainly.
“You poor dear,” she said, “you’re nearest my heart of anybody. I told you so. It’s only that one thing I don’t dare do.”
He nodded.
“Can’t you really understand that I’m afraid?”
“Afraid!” he repeated. “I should think you might be, considering your astonishing point of view. I should think you’d be properly scared to death!”
“I am. No girl, afraid, should ever take such a chance. Love and Fear cannot exist together. The one always slays the other.”
He looked at her curiously, remembering what Estridge had told him about her––how, on that terrible day in the convent chapel, this girl’s love had truly slain the fear within her as she faced the Red assassins and offered to lay down her life for her friend. Than which, it is said, there is no greater love....
“Of what are you thinking?” she asked, watching his expression.
“Of you––you strange, generous, fearless, wilful 133 girl!” Then he squared his shoulders and shook them as though freeing himself of something oppressive.