He struck it away; and Corydon, with a terrified cry, clutched at him and collapsed in his arms.
“Oh Thyrsis!” she wailed. “Save me! Save me!”
“What is it?” he gasped.
“I couldn’t do it!” she cried, choking. “I couldn’t! I tried—I tried so hard!”
“Sweetheart”, he whispered, in terror.
“Don’t let me do it!” she sobbed. “Oh, Thyrsis, you must save me!”
He pressed her to his bosom, shuddering with dread, and trying to soothe her hysterical outburst. So, little by little, he dragged the story from her. For three days she had been making up her mind to shoot herself, and she had chosen that night for the time.
“I’ve been sitting here for an hour,” she whispered—“with the revolver in my hand. And I couldn’t get up the courage to pull the trigger.”
He clasped her, white with horror.
“I heard you coming,” she went on. “I lay and pretended to sleep. Then I tried again—but I can’t, I can’t! I’m a coward!”