"Twenty days without water," he whispered, distinctly. "Twenty days—and that beast Trowley is laughing to see my tongue between my teeth like a squeezed rag."
The girl caught up a mug of water and held it to his lips. He drank greedily, and then took hold of her hand. His head was against the hollow of her arm; for, to give him the drink, she had knelt beside his low bed.
"Beatrix," he said, gravely, "let us pretend that you love me."
She was strangely moved at that, and bent closer to see his eyes.
"Why pretend, dear heart?" she answered. "I do love you, as you very well know. Sleep again, Bernard, with your head so—pressed close."
"I feel your heart," he said, simply as a child. The fever was as a fine haze across the mirror of his brain.
"It beats only for you," she murmured, pressing her lips to his cheek. The lad's eyes shone with a clearer light at that.
"Tell me that this is no vision of fever," he said. "Tell me, or strength will bring nothing but sorrow. Better death than to find your kisses a trick of dreaming."
"Is it not a pleasant dream?" she asked, softly, smiling a little.