"Cleone!" he breathed, at last.
So Cleone raised her head and looked at him, sighing a little,
blushing a little, trembling a little, with eyes shy yet unashamed,
the eyes of a maid.
"Oh, Barnabas," she murmured, "I am here--on my knees. You wanted
me--on my knees, didn't you, Barnabas? So I am here to ask you--"
But now her dark lashes fluttered and fell, hiding her eyes from him,
"--to beg you to marry me. Because I love you, Barnabas, and because,
whatever else you may be, I know you are a man. So--if you
really--want me, dear Barnabas, why--take me because I am just--your
woman."
"Want you!" he repeated, "want you--oh my Cleone!" and, with a broken,
inarticulate cry, he leaned down and would have caught her fiercely
against his heart; but she, ever mindful of his wound, stayed him
with gentle hand.
"Oh, my dear--your shoulder!" she whispered; and so, clasping tender
arms about him, she drew his weary head to her bosom and, holding
him thus, covered him with the silken curtain of her hair, and in
this sweet shade, stooped and kissed him--his brow, his tearful eyes,
and, last of all, his mouth. "Oh, Barnabas," she murmured, "was
there ever, I wonder, a man so foolish and so very dear as you, or a
woman quite so proud and happy as I?"
"Proud?" he answered, "but you are a great lady, and I am only--"
"My dear, dear--man," sighed Cleone, clasping him a little more
closely, "so--when will you marry me? For, oh, my Barnabas, if you
must always choose to go the harder way--you must let me tread it
with you, to the very end, my dear, brave, honorable man.
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