Royston marked the impulse that would have drawn
her to his side; and threw out one weak hand to warn her off; with the
other he tried to cover his own scarred, ghastly face. "Don't come near
me," he muttered; "I can't bear it." Her woman's instinct fathomed his
meaning instantly: he thought that even _she_ must shrink from him. She
laughed out loud (for her brain was almost turning) as she knelt down
and raised his head on her arm, and smoothed his matted hair, and kissed
the death-damp from his forehead, murmuring between the caresses, "You
dare not keep me from you. Do you think that _I_ fear you, my own--my
own!"
The glory of a great triumph--grand, even if sinful--lighted up the face
of the dying man; and intense passion made even his voice strong and
steady. "I believe this is better than the paradise we dreamed of in the
island of the Greek Sea."
Without a moment's pause the sweet, sad voice replied, "Yes, it is
better. _Then_ I should have died first, and hopelessly. _Now_ there is
no guilt between us that may not be forgiven."
Silence lasted till Royston gathered energy to speak again.
"You remember the glove? See--I have not parted with it yet.
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