And at first that was all. But his voice shook, and his hand; and his face went so white that he seemed like a man smitten rather by death than by love. Helen, in a pang of maiden fright, had moved away from him, and retreated to the sofa; he sank beside her silently. Leaning forward a little, he covered his eyes with one hand. The other rested on the cushion within an inch of her purple dress; he did not touch her; he did not touch it. Helen felt sorry, seeing him so troubled and wrung; her heart went out in a throb of that maternal compassion which is never absent from the love of any woman for any man. “Oh,” she sighed, “I meant to make you happy, to give you comfort! And now I have made you unhappy!” “You have made me the happiest of all miserable men!” He raised his head, and looked at her till hers was the face to fall. “Oh, don’t!” she pleaded. “Not like _that_!” But he paid no heed to this entreaty. The soul of the saint and the heart of the man made duel together; and the man won, and exulted in it, and wondered how he dared; but his gaze devoured her willfully. The first embrace of the eyes--more delicate, more deferent, and at once less guarded than the meeting of hands or clasp of arms--he gave her, and did not restrain it. Before it, Helen felt more helpless than if he had touched her. She seemed to herself to be annihilated in his love. “Happy?” he said exultingly, “you deify me! You have made a god of me!” “No,” she shook her head with a little teasing smile, “I have made a man of you.” “Then they are one thing and the same!” cried the lover. “Let me hear you say it. Tell it to me again!” She was silent, and she crimsoned to the brows. “You are not sure!” he accused her. “You want to take it back. It was a madness, an impulse. You don’t mean it. You do not, you have not loved me.... How _could_ you?” he added humbly. “You know I never counted on it, never expected, did not trust myself to think of it--all this while.” She lifted her head proudly. “I have nothing to take back. It was not an impulse. I am not that kind of woman. I have been meaning to tell you--when you gave me the chance. I love you. I have loved you ever since--” She stopped. “Since when? How long have you loved me? Come! Speak! I _will_ know!” commanded Bayard deliriously. “Oh, what is going to be gained if I tell you?” Helen gave him a prisoner’s look. She turned her head from side to side rebelliously, as if she had flown into a cage whose door was now unexpectedly shut. “I meant to make you happy. All I say seems to make everything worse. I shall tell you nothing more.” “You will tell me,” he said in a tone of calm authority, “all I ask. It is my affair whether I am happy or wretched. Yours is to obey my wish: because you love me, Helen.” His imperious voice fell to a depth of tenderness in which her soul and body seemed to sink and drown.