“They shall not take me. Now that I know you love me, Yvonne,—for you have betrayed it,—my life is, next to yours, the most precious thing to me in the world. I go at once to Quebec to settle my affairs and prepare a home for you. Then I will come,—it will be but in a month or two, when this trouble is overpast,—and I will take you away.” Her face, all her form, drooped with a sort of weariness, as if her will had been too long taxed. “You will find me the wife of George Anderson,” she said faintly. It was as if I had been struck upon the temples. My mouth opened, and shut again without words. First rage, then amazement, then despair, ran through me in hot surges. “But—your promise—not till he could show me to you,” I managed to stammer. “I gave it in good faith,” she said simply. “I can no longer hold him off by it, for I have seen you safe and well.” “I am _not_ safe, as you may soon see,” said I fiercely, “and not long shall I be well, as you will learn.” Then, perceiving that this was a sorry kind of threat, and little manly, I made haste to amend it. “No, no,” I cried, “forget that! But stick to the letter of your promises, I beseech you. Why push to go back of that? Unless,” I added, with bitterness, “you want the excuse!” She shuddered, and forgot to resent the brutality. “Go!” she pleaded. “Save yourself—for my sake—Paul!” And her voice broke. “That you may wed with the clearer conscience!” I went on, merciless in my pain. She crouched down, a drear and pitiful figure, on the slope of sod, and wept silently, her hands over her eyes. I looked at her helplessly. I wanted to throw myself at her feet. Then the right thing seemed that I should gather her up into my arms—but I dared not touch her. At last I said, doubtfully: “But—you love me!” No answer. “You do love me, Yvonne?” She lifted her face, and with a childish bravery dashed off the tears, first with one hand, then the other. She looked me straight in the eyes. “I do _not_,” said she, daring the lie. “But you—you disturb me!” This astonishing remark did not shake my confidence, but it threw me out of my argument. I shifted ground. “You do _not_ love him!” I exclaimed, lamely enough. “I respect him!” said she, cool now, and controlling the situation. I felt that I had lost my one moment of advantage—the moment when I should have taken her into my arms. Not timidity, but reverence, had balked me. My heart turned, as it were, in my breast, with a hot, dumb fury—at myself. “The respect that cannot breed love for a lover will soon breed contempt,” said I, holding myself hard to mere reasoning. She ignored this idle answer. She arose and came close up to me. “Paul,” she said, scarcely above a whisper, “_will_ you save yourself for my sake? If I say—if I say that I do love you a little—that if it _could_ have been different—been you—I should have been—oh, glad, glad!—then will you go, for my sake?”