It was the moment. "My heart—" she repeated, as though bewildered by the intensity of his eyes, "my heart—ah—yes!"
Immediately the blood rushed over her face and throat in a torrent. She snatched her eyes away, and cowered back in the corner, going red and white by turns, now angry, now frightened, now bewildered, until his gaze, half masterful, half pleading, again conquered hers. Galen Albret had ceased tapping his chair. In the dim light he sat, staring straight before him, massive, inert, grim.
"I believe you—" she murmured hurriedly at last. "I pity you!"
She rose. Quick as light he barred her passage.
"Don't! don't!" she pleaded. "I must go—you have shaken me—I—I do not understand myself——"
"I must see you again," he whispered eagerly. "To-night—by the guns."
"No, no!"
"To-night," he insisted.
She raised her eyes to his, this time naked of defence, so that the man saw down through their depths into her very soul.
"Oh," she begged, quivering, "let me pass. Don't you see—I'm going to cry!"