"Urith! Do you not know me?"
She had averted her head again. Slowly, mechanically, she again turned her face to him, seemed to be gathering her thoughts, and then said:
"You are like Anthony. But you are not he. I cannot tell who you are."
"I am your Anthony!"
He caught her elbow to draw her hand to him, to kiss it, but she started at the touch, shivered to her very feet, so as to rattle the stool under them, plucked her arm from him, and said quickly:
"Do not touch me. I will not be touched."
He heaved a long breath, and put his hand to his head.
"How can you forget me, Urith? Do you not recall how I had you in my arms, and leaped with you through the fire, on Devil Tor?"
"I was carried by him—he is dead—not by you." She looked steadily at him. "No—not by you."
"It was I!" he exclaimed, with vehemence. "I set you on my horse, dearest. It was I—I—I. Oh, Urith! do not pretend not to know me! I have been away, in danger of my life, and I thought in the battle of you, only of you. Urith! my love! Turn your eyes on me. Look steadily at me. Do you remember how, when I had set you on my horse, I stood with my hand on the neck, and my eyes on you. You dazzled me then. My head spun. Urith! dear Urith, then I first knew that you only could be mine, that nowhere in the whole world could I find another I would care for. And yet—whilst I discovered that, I foresaw something dreadful, it was undefined, a mere shadow—and now it has come. Look me in the eyes, my darling! look me in the eyes, and you must know me."