n; and, in a sort of nervous hysteria which
she forced herself to control, in the midst of stifled sobs, she told him
that if she could ever consent to unite herself to anyone, it would be to
him, to him alone, to the hero of her country, to him whose chivalrous
devotion she had admired long before she knew him, and that now--And here
she stopped short, just on the brink of an avowal.

"Well, now? Now?" demanded Andras, awaiting the word which, in her
overstrung condition, Marsa had almost spoken. "Now?"

But she did not speak these words which Zilah begged for with newly
awakened hope. She longed to end this interview which was killing her,
and in broken accents asked him to excuse her, to forgive her--but she
was really ill.

"But if you are suffering, I can not, I will not leave you."

"I implore you. I need to be alone."

"At least you will permit me to come to-morrow, Marsa, and ask for your
answer?"

"My answer? I have given it to you."

"No! No! I do not accept that refusal. No! you did not know what you were
saying. I swear to you, Marsa, that without you life is impossible to me;
all my existence is bound up in yours. You will reflect there was an
accent in your voice which bade me hope. I will come again to-morrow.
Tomorrow, Marsa. What you have said to-day does not count. Tomorrow,
to-morrow; and remember that I adore you."

And she, shuddering at the tones of his voice, not daring to say no, and
to bid him an eternal farewell, let him depart, confident, hopeful,
despite the silence to which she obstinately, desperately clung. Then,
when Andras was gone, at the end of her strength, she threw herself, like
a mad woman, down upon the divan. Once alone, she gave way utterly,
sobbing passionately, and then, suddenly ceasing, with wild eyes fixed
upon vacancy, to mutter with dry, feverish lips:

"Yet--it is life he brings to me--happiness he offers me. Have I no right
to be happy--I? My God! To be the wife of such a man! To love him--to
devote myself to him-to make his existence one succession of happy days!
To be his slave, his thing! Shall I marry him? Or--shall I kill myself?
Kill myself!" with a horrible, agonizing laugh. "Yes, that is the only
thing for me to do. But--but--I am a coward, now that I love him--a
coward! a coward! a miserable wretch!" And she fell headlong forward,
crouching upon the floor in a fierce despair, as if either life or reason
was about to escape from her forever.

C