The charm of Hildegarde’s presence drew me.
I was determined not to leave her again, for should the worst come and death claim us, it would make the crucial test less cruel if we could die together.
That, I take it, is the true mission of love, to soothe, to protect, to save, if possible; but should all these fail, to die for or with the object of its soul’s worship.
Hildegarde was where I left her.
She had the child at her side, and was endeavoring to soothe her, more by the caressing touch of her hands than by words.
Her eyes were eagerly fastened upon the cabin door, as if watching for me, and I saw a look of confidence sweep over her face when I staggered in.
My hour had come, but I could not glory in it with doom so near at hand.
Should we live, she could never again believe me lacking in those sterling qualities that go to make the man—thank Heaven for that at least! and if we died, she would with her last breath know that she was in my arms, that I had battled against overwhelming forces to save her, and failing that I chose to share her fate rather than try to win alone.
Sitting down near by I endeavored to tell her how matters stood, and what a long night of horror it promised to be.
There was no chance for conversation; the terrible din that almost deafened us prevented this, and kept alive our most excited fancies.