She buried her face upon her arms, and then lifted it suddenly toward him in the dark, as though in an agony to know what he was thinking. His hands still had hold of hers, and there was no slackening of his fingers.
“John!”
“Dear heart!”
He bent his head, and drawing her hands to him, pressed his lips to them. Below him he could see the dim, appealing whiteness of her face.
“Barbe, you should have told me.”
“I was mad.”
“Who shall judge us, dear? You should have told me. I might have spared you much.”
He drew her hands close into his bosom, and she leaned there, letting the tears flow silently and the sorrow in her take refuge in his strength.
“You will not condemn me, John—you?”
“I! What am I, child, to condemn you?”