In vain he fought against it, in vain stung
himself to action by the memory of all that she had done to him. His
love remained triumphant. In that supreme moment his faith burst
through the darkness, and again he believed in her, believed in her
against reason, against the world, against the ineffaceable past, and
against himself. And it was too late. He no longer stood alone. His
word was given.
"Have pity on me!" he said, once more facing her. "Let me save you!"
"I should despise myself, and you would despise me--even more than you
do now. I can not do less than share the fate of those whose lives my
folly has jeopardized."
"At least go back to them--do not stay here. Beatrice, for God's
sake!--I can not turn back. You have made me suffer enough--." He
stood before her now as an incoherent pleader, and her heart burned
with an exultation in which the thought of life and death played no
part. She knew that he still loved her. It seemed for the moment all
that mattered.
"I can not," she said.
"Beatrice, do not deceive yourself. Though my life is nothing to
me--though I would give it a dozen times to save you--I can not do
otherwise than go on. I may be weak, but I shall be stronger than my
weakness. My word is given!"
He spoke with the tempestuous energy of despair. The minutes were
passing with terrible swiftness, and any moment the sea behind him
might burst its dam and sweep her and him to destruction.
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