"Come," said the Admiral, but she was oblivious to all except the storm of her distress.
"Come," repeated the Admiral, but she heard not.
"Come," repeated he once more impatiently; but her tear-filled eyes were fixed upon Germain. The horror of his falsity was strong within her, but his chivalry and tenderness throughout their long association could not be so quickly forgotten, nor the bonds of her affection so instantly blotted out. The mystery of his long sorrow dawned upon her, and his utter self-accusation appealed to her pity. Their differences of rank became as nothing.
"Come away," said the Admiral again, with soft-uttered persuasiveness.
Cyrène's nature, in those moments, had felt, thought, concluded with lightning swiftness. Her soul swept through a great arc of intuition.
"No, no, there is something I do not understand!" she cried. "My Germain, God has made you for me. You loved me and were led astray, but you are honourable and faithful in the sight of heaven, my eternal love. Let us kiss each other. Let us press each other to our breasts and die; in a few hours we shall be together for ever."
Before the Admiral could prevent it they were clasped in a passionate, feverish, last embrace.
"Very well," the Admiral sneered frigidly. "I keep my promises. Apothecary's apprentice, to-day you die. As for you, citizeness, I give you your freedom."
"I reject it—I will die with him," she answered.
"Not at all," he returned. "I promised him your liberty. I keep my promises."