“Not on me, with you here. Let her look to her own husband for help; I belong to you.”
My words, spoken so stubbornly, brought out a strange answer.
Hildegarde uttered a cry—it was not of fear such as Diana’s wails—oh, no, something entirely different. Strange how that note of joy sounded amid the exclamations of fright, the bursting of the waves against the stranded yacht, and the whistle of the wind.
“Oh! Morgan, he her husband——”
“Yes, these fifteen months and more,” I cried, as the truth dawned on me, and I saw as in a flash what the grave barrier was that in her mind had stood between us.
“Forgive me—I thought—they told me you had gone away with your old flame. Morgan, here with death facing us, tell me that you forgive me—for, I love you, indeed better than ever before in all my life.”
Well, I even forgot that the yacht was going to pieces under us, and that Death on a White Horse was riding very near, eager for victims. A man may ignore even such important facts as these when the clouds suddenly part to allow the warm sun a chance to thaw out his frozen heart.
For the first time in our lives we understood each other then.
I saw upon her face such ecstatic love that it were even worth the terrible danger to enjoy such a moment of bliss.
Eagerly I opened my arms and she sprang to their shelter—please Heaven, never to leave it again save to cross the dark stream to eternity.