“Yes,” she said, “there are other things than hatred to explain that attitude.”

Don Luis was dumfounded.  He did not quite understand the meaning of the reply; but Florence’s tone of voice disconcerted him beyond measure, and he also saw that Florence’s eyes no longer wore their usual scornful expression and that they were filled with smiling charm.  And it was the first time that Florence had smiled in his presence.

“Speak, speak, I entreat you!” he stammered.

“I mean to say that there is another feeling which explains coldness, mistrust, fear, and hostility.  It is not always those whom we detest that we avoid with the greatest fear; and, if we avoid them, it is often because we are afraid of ourselves, because we are ashamed, because we rebel and want to resist and want to forget and cannot—­”

She stopped; and, when he wildly stretched out his arms to her, as if beseeching her to say more and still more, she nodded her head, thus telling him that she need not go on speaking for him to read to the very bottom of her soul and discover the secret of love which she kept hidden there.

Don Luis staggered on his feet.  He was intoxicated with happiness, almost suffered physical pain from that unexpected happiness.  After the horrible minutes through which he had passed amid the impressive surroundings of the Old Castle, it appeared to him madness to admit that such extraordinary bliss could suddenly blossom forth in the commonplace setting of that room at a hotel.

He could have longed for space around him, forest, mountains, moonlight, a radiant sunset, all the beauty and all the poetry of the earth.  With one rush, he had reached the very acme of happiness.  Florence’s very life came before him, from the instant of their meeting to the tragic moment when the cripple, bending over her and seeing her eyes filled with tears, had shouted: 

“She’s crying!  She’s crying!  What madness!  But I know your secret, Florence!  And you’re crying!  Florence, Florence, you yourself want to die!”

It was a secret of love, a passionate impulse which, from the first day, had driven her all trembling toward Don Luis.  Then it had bewildered her, filled her with fear, appeared to her as a betrayal of Marie and Sauverand and, by turns urging her toward and drawing her away from the man whom she loved and whom she admired for his heroism and loyalty, rending her with remorse and overwhelming her as though it were a crime, had ended by delivering her, feeble and disabled, to the diabolical influence of the villain who coveted her.

Don Luis did not know what to do, did not know in what words to express his rapture.  His lips trembled.  His eyes filled with tears.  His nature prompted him to take her in his arms, to kiss her as a child kisses, full on the lips, with a full heart.  But a feeling of intense respect paralyzed his yearning.  And, overcome with emotion, he fell at Florence’s feet, stammering words of love and adoration.