"Who? What?" she stammered. She looked intently at him to assure herself that he was indeed the man he said; then, with a low cry of "Henri!" she withdrew her hand from his and, burying her face in the cushions, burst into a storm of tears.
Pained beyond measure and astonished at the violence of her grief, for she sobbed without restraint, St. Just threw himself on his knees beside her, placed one arm round her waist and, with caresses and loving words, did his best to stem her tears.
"What ails my darling? why these tears?" he asked in gentle accents. "Is it excess of joy at my return, or what? You are unnerved, my Halima. It was thoughtless of me so suddenly to come upon you. You thought no doubt, with others, that I was dead, that we should never meet again. It was so said, I know, but it was false; I am indeed your Henri. And I have seen your father; have been his guest for months; and he has sent me here to take you to him. Then we are never to be parted more. So, weep no more, my darling, but look into my eyes and say you love me."
With such words and more of the same nature did the young men seek to allay her anguish, whose intensity was beginning to alarm him. Then he gently strove to raise her head from the cushions in which she still kept it buried.
She made but a faint resistance, and turned her tear-stained face on his. He tried to kiss her, but she shrank back from him, with a hunted look upon her face. He had never seen such a look on it before, and it made him tremble; still more so did her words.
"Oh, no! no! you must not. Do not touch me. And go, go away, if you would save both further misery. You cannot guess what shame and suffering your presence causes me. If you would spare me more, I entreat you, leave me."
St. Just, not having an inkling of the truth, supposed that it was his own conduct in having, as she supposed, so long neglected her, that had caused this outburst. Still her face expressed neither injured pride nor anger.
"Tell me, my Halima," he implored in piteous accents, "in what have I offended. Indeed it was not my fault that I came not to you sooner. I have been ill for many months—at death's door twice. I——"
With an effort she choked back her tears, and, turning her lovely head, her hair all disordered and her eyes red with weeping, towards him, she looked at him, oh so sadly in the face; then she said softly:
"I blame you not, Henri; it is I alone who am to blame. And I am your Halima no longer. I am not worthy of you. Forget me, forget that the unhappy woman you knew as Halima ever lived, and, if you can, forgive her. But go, I pray you."