“To the murder of Ely Crouch.”
Some sort of sound I was conscious of making. I suppose I gasped. But they were too engrossed to hear.
“You would do even that? But the penalty—the shame—”
“What do they matter to a dying man?” he retorted impatiently.
She had fallen back from him, in the shock of his suggestion, but now she came forward again slowly, her glorious eyes fixed on his. So they stood face to face, soul to soul, deep answering unto deep, and, as I sit here speaking, I saw the wonder and the miracle flower in her face. When she spoke again, her words seemed the inevitable expression of that which had passed silently between them.
“Do you love me?”
“Before God I do,” he answered.
“Take me away! There’s time yet. I’ll go with you anywhere, anywhere! I’m all yours. I’ve loved you from the first, I think, as you have loved me. All I ask is to live for you, and when you die, to die with you.”
Fire flashed from his face at the call. He took a step toward her. A shout, half-muffled, sounded from outside the window. Instantly the light and passion died in his eyes. I have never seen a face at once so stern and so gentle as his was when he caught the outreaching hands in his own.
“You forget that they must find one of us, or it’s all no use. Listen carefully, dear one. If you truly love me, you must do as I bid you. Give me my chance of fooling fate; of making my death worth while. It won’t be hard.” He took the little box from his pocket. “It will be very easy.”