Go away and leave me
to enjoy here what peace I may. It is the least that you can do to
amend the wrong that you have done me and mine."
The man stared at her through his fishy eyes for a moment in silence,
then there broke from his lips a peal of mirthless, uncanny laughter.
"Go away! Leave you alone!" he cried. "I have found you. We are
going to be good friends. There is no one else in the world but
us. No one will ever know what we do or what becomes of us and now
you ask me to go away and live alone in this hellish solitude."
Again he laughed, though neither the muscles of his eyes or his
mouth reflected any mirth--it was just a hollow sound that imitated
laughter.
"Remember your promise," she said.
"Promise! Promise! What are promises? They are made to be broken--we
taught the world that at Liege and Louvain. No, no! I will not go
away. I shall stay and protect you."
"I do not need your protection," she insisted. "You have already
seen that I can use a spear."
"Yes," he said; "but it would not be right to leave you here
alone--you are but a woman. No, no; I am an officer of the Kaiser
and I cannot abandon you."
Once more he laughed. "We could be very happy here together," he
added.
The woman could not repress a shudder, nor, in fact, did she attempt
to hide her aversion.
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