By Mabel Collins.
CHAPTER VII.
The cloud lifted to reveal Fleta’s face. She was bending over him; she was at his side; she was almost leaning her face on his.
“My dear, my dear,” she said in a soft whispering voice, “has the blow been too great? Tell me, Hilary, speak to me? Have you still your senses?”
“And you love that man?” was Hilary’s sole answer, fixing his eyes in a cold strange gaze on her.
“Oh! Hilary, you talk of what is unknown to you! I love him, yes, and with a love so profound it is unimaginable to you.”
“And you tell me this! You tell this to the man who loves you, and who has already devoted his whole life to you! Do you want a madman for your service?”
“A life!” exclaimed Fleta, with a strange tone that had a ring as of scorn in it. “What is a life? I count it nothing. Our great aims lie beyond such considerations.”
Hilary raised himself and looked into her face.