Marpasse took Denise in her arms.
“My sister,” and she was greatly moved, “take it not to heart. In a week, or a month, it may seem different.”
But Denise was in earnest as her white face showed.
“No, no, Marpasse, I cannot. Give me the knife.”
Marpasse fumbled for it, great passionate tears rushing to her eyes. Had she not once passed through the same pain, and shirked the crisis, only to become a stroller and a courtesan! Denise had a more sensitive surface, a deeper courage. Yet Marpasse’s heart cried out against the thing.
The two men were close upon them now, riding slowly and at some distance from one another so that the two women should not play hide and seek behind the trees. Marpasse turned her head away as she gave Denise the knife.
“My sister, am I wrong in this?”
Denise caught her, and kissed her on the mouth.
“Truest of friends, go, now. It will not be so hard to end it, for I am very tired.”
Marpasse broke away with a spasm of the throat. The thought seized her suddenly that by running she might draw the men away from Denise. Yet she had not gone three steps before her wet eyes saw something that made her start, and then stand like a deer at gaze.