"It is not mine to give," she said.
"It is his?"
"Yes, Monsieur," she answered, wondering at her courage, at her audacity,
her madness. "It is his."
"And it cannot be mine--at any time?"
She shook her head, trembling.
"Never?" And, suddenly reaching forward, he gripped her wrist in an iron
grasp. There was passion in his tone. His eyes burned her.
Whether it was that set her on another track, or pure despair, or the cry
in her ears of little children and of helpless women, something in a
moment inspired her, flashed in her eyes and altered her voice. She
raised her head and looked him firmly in the face.
"What," she said, "do you mean by love?"
"You!" he answered brutally.
"Then--it may be, Monsieur," she returned. "There is a way if you will."
"A way!"
"If you will!"
As she spoke she rose slowly to her feet; for in his surprise he had
released her wrist. He rose with her, and they stood confronting one
another on the strip of grass between the river and the poplars.
"If I will?" His form seemed to dilate, his eyes devoured her. "If I
will?"
"Yes," she replied. "If you will give me the letters that are in your
belt, the packet which I saved to-day--that I may destroy them--I will be
yours freely and willingly."
He drew a deep breath, still devouring her with his eyes.
"You mean it?" he said at last.
"I do." She looked him in the face as she spoke, and her cheeks were
white, not red. "Only--the letters! Give me the letters."
"And for them you will give me your love?"
Her eyes flickered, and involuntarily she shivered. A faint blush rose
and dyed her cheeks.
"Only God can give love," she said, her tone low.
"And yours is given?"
"Yes."
"To another?"
"I have said it."
"It is his. And yet for these letters--"
"For these lives!" she cried proudly.
"You will give yourself?"
"I swear it," she answered, "if you will give them to me! If you will
give them to me," she repeated. And she held out her hands; her face,
full of passion, was bright with a strange light. A close observer might
have thought her distraught; still excited by the struggle in the boat,
and barely mistress of herself.
But the man whom she tempted, the man who held her price at his belt,
after one searching look at her turned from her; perhaps because he could
not trust himself to gaze on her. Count Hannibal walked a dozen paces
from her and returned, and again a dozen paces and returned; and again a
third time, with something fierce and passionate in his gait. At last he
stopped before her.