The commanding figure towered in the
grim surroundings like a dark statue, erect, unmoving, and in no way
weak. And yet she knew that she had but to speak and the figure would
move, the lips would form words, the voice would reach her ear. He would
raise this hand or that, step forwards or backwards, at her command,
affirm what she bid him affirm, and deny whatever she chose to hear
denied. For a moment she wished that he had been as Keyork Arabian,
stronger than she; then, with the half-conscious comparison the passion
for the man himself surged up and drowned every other thought. She
almost forgot that for the time he was not to be counted among the
living. She went to him, and clasped her hands upon his shoulder, and
looked up into his scarce-seeing eyes.
"You must love me," she said, "you must love me because I love you so.
Will you not love me, dear? I have waited so long for you!"
The soft words vibrated in his sleeping ear but drew forth neither
acknowledgment nor response. Like a marble statue he stood still, and
she leaned upon his shoulder.
"Do you not hear me?" she cried in a more passionate tone. "Do you not
understand me? Why is it that your love is so hard to win? Look at me!
Might not any man be proud to love me? Am I not beautiful enough for
you? And yet I know that I am fair. Or are you ashamed because people
call me a witch? Why then I will never be one again, for your sake! What
do I care for it all? Can it be anything to me--can anything have worth
that stands between me and you? Ah, love--be not so very hard!"
The Wanderer did not move.
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