“What I have asked. Ride down to Thorn—to-night. And, Stephen, do not think that I shall die—so soon—that you can play with me—and shirk it. You may wish that I were dead now—and silent.”
He leaned against the wall, spreading his arms against it as though to steady himself.
“Before God, Nan, not that!”
“Stephen, if you have ever loved me, do not stoop to play a coward’s trick upon me now.”
He leaned there against the wall, almost like a man crucified, his face haggard, his forehead agleam with sweat. He had come to temporize, to dissuade, to cheat the truth with a few glib words, and he found the heart plucked out of him, and his self beaten against its anger and its will.
“Nan, I will go.”
“There is time—yet.”
“A night—and a day.”
She held out her hands as though with a piteous sense of loneliness and leave-taking; but though he was humbled, shaken, he could not look into her face.
“Nan, I will go. Let that help you to live. What will come of it God alone can tell.”