"Darling child--I love you madly, madly, Sabine--dear little one--but you and I are just driftwood, floating down the tide--not like Henry, who is a splendid fellow of great use to England. It is impossible that his whole life should be ruined and sacrificed for our selfishness. Darling--" and he paused and drew her to him again fondly. "It is our own fault. We have let the situation develop through indecision and, I expect, wounded vanity and weakness--and now we must have strength to abide by our words. Henry isn't young like we are, you see. I honestly believe it would knock him right out if anything went wrong."
But Sabine clung to him still. She could think of nothing but that she loved him, and that he was her mate and her husband, and why must she be torn from his side for the happiness of any other man.
She was in an agony of grief. And then suddenly back to her came the words of Père Anselme, heavy as the stroke of doom. Yes, she had taken matters into her own hands and presumed to direct fate, and now all that she could do was to be true to herself and to her word. Michael was right; they must say good-bye. Henry must not be sacrificed.
She raised her pitiful face from his breast where it was buried, and he framed it in both his hands, and it would have been difficult to recognize his bold eyes, so filled were they with tenderness and love.
"Sabine," he commanded, fondly, "tell me that, after all, you have forgiven me for making you stay that night. You know that we were perfectly happy at the end of it, and it will be such pain for me to have to remember all the rest of my life that you hold resentment. Darling, if only you had stayed! Oh! I would have cherished you and petted you," here he smoothed her hair, and murmured love words in her ear with his wonderful charm, until Sabine felt that neither heaven nor earth nor anything else mattered but only he.
"Sweetheart," he went on, "we have got to part in a moment, but I just must know if you love me a little in spite of everything. I _must know_, my darling little girl."
Then he held her to him again with immense tenderness, even in this moment of agonized parting exulting in the intoxication of love he saw that he had created in her eyes. There was no wile for the enslaving of a woman's heart that he was not master of. The question as to whether he ought to have employed them on this occasion is quite another matter, and not for our consideration! He was doing what he thought was the only honorable thing possible, giving up this glorious happiness, and he was merely a strong, passionate human being after all. They were going to part for the rest of their lives; he must make her tell him that she loved him, he wanted to hear her say the words.