Even now she might be laughing at him, playing on
that in him which nothing could destroy or conceal--his love for her.
And yet--! Behind him he heard the uneasy stir of impatient feet, the
hushed clash of arms. He stood between her and a certain, terrible
death. One word from him, and it would be over--his path clear. But he
could not speak that word. Treacherous and cruel as she had been, the
halo of her first glory still hung about her. He saw her as he had
first seen her--the golden image of pure womanhood--and, strange,
unreasoning contradiction of the human heart, beneath the ashes of his
old faith a new fire had kindled and with every moment burned more
brightly. Unquenchable trust fought out a death struggle with
distrust, and in that conflict her words recurred to him with poignant
significance: "Death is the easiest, the kindest solution to it all."
For him also there seemed no other escape. He pointed to the revolver.
"For whom is that?" he asked.
"I do not know--but I will make them kill me."
"Why do you not shoot me, then?" he demanded, between despair and
bitterness. "That would save you all. If I fell, they would turn and
fly. They think I am Vishnu. Haven't you thought of that? I am in your
power. Why don't you make yourself the benefactress of your country?
Why don't you shoot her enemy?"
She made no answer, but her eyes met his steadily and calmly. He
turned away, groaning.
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