"Never?" And, suddenly reaching forward, he gripped her wrist in an iron grasp. There was passion in his tone. His eyes burned her.
Whether it was that set her on another track, or pure despair, or the cry in her ears of little children and of helpless women, something in a moment inspired her, flashed in her eyes and altered her voice. She raised her head and looked him firmly in the face. "What," she said, "do you mean by love?"
"You!" he answered brutally.
"Then--it may be, monsieur," she returned. "There is a way if you will."
"Away!"
"If you will!" As she spoke she rose slowly to her feet; for in his surprise he had released her wrist. He rose with her, and they stood confronting one another on the strip of grass between the river and the poplars.
"If I will?" His form seemed to dilate, his eyes devoured her. "If I will?"
"Yes," she replied. "If you will give me the letters that are in your belt, the packet which I saved to-day--that I may destroy them--I will be yours freely and willingly."
He drew a deep breath, still devouring her with his eyes. "You mean it?" he said at last.
"I do." She looked him in the face as she spoke, and her cheeks were white, not red. "Only--the letters! Give me the letters."