Olof started as if he had been stabbed.  He put his hands to his head, and strode violently up and down, muttering wildly:  “Kill you—­yes, kill you and myself too, kill, kill, kill....”

So he went on for a while, then, flinging himself down on the sofa, he tore open his coat, snatched off the white rosette he wore, and threw it down, crying out in agony:  “Why must I suffer like this?  Was there ever such a wedding night?  It is hell, hell...!”

Kyllikki stood calmly watching him.  She was gradually feeling more sure of herself now.  At last she moved towards him.

“Do you want me to love you?” she said quietly.  “Or must I hate you and despise you?  You listen to the stories of a drunken fool, instead of asking the one person in the world you should trust; you give me no explanation when I ask you.  Is it any wonder, after all, that the man should have said what he did—­to let you taste for once a drop of the poison you have poured out for who knows how many others?  As for him, I knew him when we were children—­there was some talk of our being married, years ago.  He was five years older than I, and was too young then to know of any harm in an occasional caress.  More than that never—­though it seems in his drunken wickedness he tried to make out there was.”

“Kyllikki, is it true?” cried Olof, springing to his feet.

“It is true. I am still pure, but you—­have you the right to ask a pure woman to be your wife?”

“Have I the right....” he began haughtily; but the words died on his lips, and he sank back on the sofa, covering his face with his hands, as if to keep out visions of dread.

“It would have been only just,” Kyllikki went on, “if it had been as you believed—­yes, it should have been so!  And you knew it—­and so you stormed and threatened to kill me!”

She paused for a moment; Olof quailed under her glance.

“Pure and innocent,” she continued; “yes, that is what you ask, that is your right.  But have you for one moment thought of me?  I, who am innocent and pure—­what is given to me in return?”

“You are torturing me,” answered Olof, wringing his hands.  “I know, I know—­and I have thought of you too....  Oh....”

“Thought of me?—­yes, perhaps you have, now and again.  There was something of it in your letter—­you felt it then.  And I took it as a prayer for forgiveness, and I could have faced it all as it was—­I was thinking more of you than of myself.  But now....”

“O God—­this is madness!” cried Olof, his voice choking with sobs.  “Is this the end?...  And this night, this night that I have looked forward to in my brightest dreams—­this new dawn that was to be ... crushed, crushed, a trampled wreath and veil ... and this is my wedding night!”

He flung himself face downward on the sofa, sobbing violently.

“Your wedding night?” said Kyllikki softly. “Your wedding night?  How many such have you not had before?  But mine....”  Her voice broke.  “Oh, mine has never been, and never will be, never....”