It did not seem that she even breathed, so deathly still she stood.

“Is that—–­your reason?”

“Yes.  I have no right to love you.”

She could scarcely speak.  “Is—­friendship not enough, Mr. Berkley?”

“It is too late for friendship.  You know it.”

“That cannot be.”

“Why, Ailsa?”

“Because it is friendship—­mistaken friendship that moves you now in every word you say.”  She raised her candid gaze.  “Is there no end to your self-murder?  Do you still wish to slay yourself before my very eyes?”

“I tell you that there is nothing good left living in me: 

“And if it were true; did you never hear of a resurrection?”

“I—­warn you!”

“I hear your warning.”

“You dare let me love you?”

Dry-lipped, voices half stifled by their mounting emotion, they stood closely confronted, paling under the effort of self-mastery.  And his was giving way, threatening hers with every breath.

Suddenly in his altered face she saw what frightened her, and her hand suddenly closed in his; but he held it imprisoned.

“Answer me, Ailsa!”

“Please—­” she said—­“if you will let me go—­I will answer—­you——­”

“What?”

“What you—­ask.”

Her breath was coming faster; her face, now white as a flower, now flushed, swam before him.  Through the surging passion enveloping him he heard her voice as at a distance: 

“If you will—­let me go—­I can tell you——­”

“Tell me now!”

“Not—­this way. . . .  How can you care for me if——­

“I warned you, Ailsa!  I told you that I am unfit to love you.  No woman could ever marry me!  No woman could even love me if she knew what I am!  You understood that.  I told you.  And now—­good God!—­I’m telling you I love you—­I can’t let you go!—­your hands:—­the sweetness of them—­the——­”

“I—­oh, it must not be—­this way——­”

“It is this way!”

“I know—­but please try to help.—­I—­I am not afraid to—­love
you------”

Her slender figure trembled against him; the warmth of her set him afire.  There was a scent of tears in her breath—­a fragrance as her body relaxed, yielded, embraced; her hands, her lids, her:  hair, her mouth, all his now, for the taking, as he took her into his arms.  But he only stared down at what lay there; and, trembling, breathless, her eyes unclosed and she looked up blindly into his flushed face.

“Because I—­love you,” she sighed, “I believe in all that—­that I have—­never—­seen—­in you.”

He looked back into her eyes, steadily: 

“I am going mad over you, Ailsa.  There is only destruction for you in that madness. . . .  Shall I let you go?”

“W-what?”

But the white passion in his face was enough; and, involuntarily her lids shut it out.  But she did not stir.