She did not move away. She pressed closer to him, threw her arms round his neck, and wept with her beautiful head on his shoulder.
O poet, strongest and weakest of men, it was not about your neck those white arms should rest.
“If I had known that,” she whispered, “never would I have taken the old man. I have watched you this evening; there is no one like you.”
From between pale lips Gösta forced out,—
“Ferdinand.”
She silenced him with a kiss.
“He is nothing; no one but you is anything. To you will I be faithful.”
“I am Gösta Berling,” he said gloomily; “you cannot marry me.”
“You are the man I love, the noblest of men. You need do nothing, be nothing. You are born a king.”