A quick denial sprang to his lips. He believed that deception then would have been no lie, but to the man who had ever fought for truth, to the simple, direct nature, even that deception was impossible.
“You spoke, madam; yet, believe me, your words I shall withhold forever, even from myself.”
Long they stood in silence, conveying no thought one to the other, by word, or look, or slightest gesture, their spirits, at the end of that silent lifetime, seeming to meet and become one; yet even in the instant of their acute conception of the union they stood apart, as if denying the bond.
Finally he saw her tremble, and a keen realization of her own despair rose above all thoughts of self. “Thank God,” he said, “our colony hath need of us. There’s work to do—not for me only, but for you.”
Thereafter she passed him, inclining her head in vague assent, and with a strenuous effort started out in the darkness toward the gate of the main enclosure.
He could not follow, knowing that her silence prayed him to withhold assistance, yet every instinct fought against his self-control.
“I will send the chirurgeon,” he said, “to your father’s house.”