Hastings glanced down at his own arm, on which her eyes seemed to rest; then he suddenly beheld, almost as one beholds one’s self in a mirror, his counterpart recoil from her reach while he exclaimed scornfully:
“Don’t—don’t touch me! Nor pray think that your wiles will ever win from me any forgiveness.”
She stopped stock-still.
“Is he dead?” she demanded.
“Ah, then, you do admit, do you, that you love him?” the other flung at her. “Say it to me! say it to me!” he charged, and he half closed his eyes; “or—by Heaven! I will—”
Hastings felt the justice of this accusation, and turned doubtingly back to the girl for her answer. She stared at him, waiting.
“What is the use?” she asked in despair. “Would you believe me?”
“If you confess I will believe you,” stated the stranger.
It seemed to Hastings that she grew visibly taller; her face underwent a spasm of pain; and apparently unable longer to remain silent, she cried out to him:
“Can it be that for you a confession is more to be believed than aught which has not to be confessed?” And Hastings could feel the touch of her hand cold on his wrist.