“You’re safe, precious one, safe,” he whispered, as he might have soothed a child.  “There’s nothing to be afraid of now.”

Angela opened her eyes and looked at him through her lashes as she had never looked before.  “I—­thought of you then,” she murmured.  “I thought of you—­I wanted you.  Just when I expected to die.”

Her eyes, her voice, her words, broke down the last barrier that held him back; and he would have been more or less than man if he had not poured out, in a torrent, all his love and worship in a flood of words.

“Darling—­heart’s dearest—­do you think I’d have let you die so?  I must have felt—­I must have heard you call me.  It had to be.  I’d feel a thought of yours across the world,” he stammered.  “If I were in my grave and you wanted me, my spirit would come back into my body to serve you.  How I love you, love you, dear!  It can’t be that such love can leave you cold.  I’m not of your world, but come down to mine, or help me to come into yours.  Give me a little love, just a little love, and I’ll give you my soul.”

“Don’t—­oh, don’t!” faltered Angela.  She raised her head from his arm and sat up, leaning away from him.

“I know I’m a wretch!” he said.  “I ought to be shot for speaking of myself, when you’re all broken to pieces.  The words came.  I’ve been keeping them back day by day, but that’s no excuse.  Forgive me!”

“No—­you mustn’t use the word forgive—­when you’ve just saved my life!  It’s only this—­I can’t let you go on.”

“Not now.  I know.  But some time——­”

“No.  Not ever.  Don’t think I couldn’t care for you.  It isn’t that.  I could.  I——­But I mustn’t care.  It’s all impossible!  I ought to have told you long ago.  The only thing is to forget—­for us both.  Oh, if I could have kept you for my friend!  But I feel now that’s impossible, too.  After this, we can’t be friends, can we?”

“No, we can’t be friends,” he echoed, very pale, suddenly weary and almost broken by the strain he had endured.  “But are you sure——­”

“Sure.  The more I care, the more sure.  Oh, Nick, my dear, my dear, I wish you had let me die!”

He looked at her strangely and very sadly, after his first start and stiffening of the muscles.  “Would that have been better than caring for me?” he asked in a voice so low that she could just catch the words.

“Yes, it would have been much better,” she answered, covering her face with her hands to hide the tears that burned her eyes.  She was too weak for the explanation she would have given at sunset among the redwoods.  This was no time, and she was in no state for explanations.  She could only feel and hide from him what she felt, or part of it; for if he but half guessed how she loved him and wanted his love, she would be in his arms, his lips on hers.  There was no thought in her mind how terribly he might be misunderstanding.