She smiled, pressed my hands, shook her head as though at a loss to account for her behavior.
"The first hint of it I had," she said, "was when he coolly warned me that he would thwart me. And I looked into his eyes and knew him for the first time—knew him to be the stronger, the wiser, the more capable,—and the more powerful.
"And I realized, all in a moment, that he had endured my contempt and tyranny merely because he chose to; that he was a real man, in cool possession of his own destiny; that, if he chose, he could clear his mind of me, and presently his heart; that I was not essential to him, not necessary; that, indeed, unless I instantly took myself in hand and made an effort to measure up to him, he'd turn from me,—quite courteously—and go his own way with a kindly indifference which suddenly seemed terrifying to me.... And I loved him.... And let him know.... And that is how it happened with me."
After a long pause: "What would happen," I inquired, "if I tried that sort of thing on Thusis?"
Clelia shook her head: "Thusis and I are different. I don't wish to be a martyr."
"Does Thusis?"
"I'm rather afraid she is inclined that way. Of course we both were quite willing to suffer physical martyrdom if we failed to carry off these wretched kings. That is a different kind of martyrdom—a shot in the brain, a knife thrust—perhaps a brutish supplice from the boche——" She shrugged her shoulders. "We were not afraid," she added. "But when another sort of death suddenly confronted me—the death of love in him I loved—I had no courage—none at all. You see I am not the stuff of which martyrs are fashioned, Mr. O'Ryan."
"Is Thusis?"
"Alas!"
"She prefers to suffer?"