“No, no, Godfrey! Enough—enough! Spare me this!”
And she struggled from my arms.
“My darling!” I cried, “I know! I know! Yet you cannot realise all that I suffer now that we are to part again and for ever. I hate that man. Ah! light of my eyes, when I think that you are to be his I—I would rather a thousand times see you lying cold and dead at my feet, for I would then know that at least you would be spared unhappiness.”
It seemed that she dared not trust herself to look on me. She flung back her head and eluded my embrace.
“My love!” I cried, “all life in me is yearning for your life; for the softness of silent kisses; for the warmth of clasped hands; for the gladness of summer hours beside the sea. Do you remember them? Do you remember the passion and peace of our mutual love that smiled at the sun, and knew that heaven held no fairer joys than those which were its own, at the mere magic of a single touch?”
“Yes, dear,” she sighed, “I remember—I remember everything. And you have a right to reproach me as you will,” she added very gently.
She was still unyielding; her burning eyes were now tearless, and she stood motionless.
“But you have forgiven me, my love?” I cried humbly. “I was mad to have uttered those words.”
“I have forgiven, Godfrey,” she answered. A heavy sigh ran through the words and made them barely audible.
“And you still love me?”