"Cleone!" he whispered, "Cleone--can you--do you--love me? Oh, my
white lady,--my woman that I love,--do you love me?"
She did not speak, but her eyes answered him; and, in that moment
Barnabas stooped and kissed her, and held her close, and closer,
until she sighed and stirred in his embrace.
Then, all at once, he groaned and set her down, and stood before her
with bent head.
"My dear," said he, "oh, my dear!"
"Barnabas?"
"Forgive me,--I should have spoken,--indeed, I meant to,--but I
couldn't think,--it was so sudden,--forgive me! I didn't mean to
even touch your hand until I had confessed my deceit. Oh, my dear,
--I am not--not the fine gentleman you think me. I am only a very
--humble fellow. The son of a village--inn-keeper. Your eyes
were--kind to me just now, but, oh Cleone, if so humble a fellow
is--unworthy, as I fear,--I--I will try to--forget."
Very still she stood, looking upon his bent head, saw the quiver of
his lips, and the griping of his strong hands. Now, when she spoke,
her voice was very tender.
"Can you--ever forget?"
"I will--try!"
"Then--oh, Barnabas, don't! Because I--think I could--love
this--humble fellow, Barnabas.
Pages:
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519