“Betty—sweetheart—I love you!”
The thread was snapped apart, and the ball fell to the floor, but he held her hands fast.
“Nay, you must listen to me, for this night I go away to bear my share in the war, perchance to give my life for the cause I hold to be right. But before I go I must tell you what is in my heart—tell you that I love you as a man loves the woman to whom he gives his name, with whom he leaves his honour. And not only must I tell you that, but I must hear you say that, believing as I do, you do not blame me for going to the war. You do not blame me, do you?”
Her hands lay still in his, but her head was bent so low he could not see into her eyes.
“This war means everything to me, for the enemies of the king against whom I shall have to fight are my neighbours and acquaintances, and, worse still, the near and dear relatives of my love. Under such circumstances you do not think I would fight save from principle?”
“No.”
“And you do not condemn the step I am taking, even though it sets me against your dear ones? I cannot see things as they do.”
She lifted her head and looked at him squarely for a moment. “Every man should follow the dictates of his conscience.”
“I knew your heart would recognize the justice of my case. And when it is all over, and I come back, you will not let this stand between us—you will be my wife?”
But she drew her hand away, shaking her head with downcast eyes, and his pleading was futile. “To promise you would be to go against my mother, and it were undutiful in me to add to her present distress; now that my father is dead and my brother gone to the war, my mother has only me to comfort her.”