If she
did, she would not understand. She was only a child after all. He told
himself that he was old enough to be her father, though he was not; he
tried not to think of her at all. But that was of no use. He would
have given his body, his freedom, his soul and the life to come, to
kiss her as she lay helpless in his arms; he would have given anything
the world held, or heaven, if it had been his; anything, except his
honour. But that he would not give. His heart might beat itself to
pieces, his brain might whirl, the little fires might flash furiously
in his closed eyes, his throat might be as parched as the rich man's
in hell--she had trusted herself to him like a child, in sheer despair
and misery, and safe as a child she should lie on his breast. She
should die there, if they were to die.
"I am warm now," she said at last, "really quite warm again, if you
want to go back."
He did not wonder. He felt as if he were on fire from his head to his
feet. At her words he relaxed his arms at once, and she stood up.
"You are so good to me," she said, with an impulse of gratitude for
safety which she herself did not understand. "What makes you so good
to me?"
He shook his head, as if he could not answer then, and smiled a little
sadly.
"Now that you are warm, I must not lose time," he said, a moment
later, taking up his lantern.
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