“I am not unjust.”  His tone softened again.  “I know what it means, to say that I love you—­it is my life, this love.  I have known it a long time.  It has been on my lips to say it for weeks, and since it has been said, it cannot be unsaid.  A moment ago you told me not to doubt you.  I do not.  And now you say that we must not love each other, as though we had a choice to make—­and why?  Because you once made a rash promise—­”

“Hush!” interrupted Maria Consuelo.  “You must not—­”

“I must and will.  You made a promise, as though you had a right at such a moment to dispose of all your life—­I do not speak of mine—­as though you could know what the world held for you, and could renounce it all beforehand.  I tell you you had no right to make such an oath, and a vow taken without the right to take it is no vow at all—­”

“It is—­it is!  I cannot break it!”

“If you love me you will.  But you say we are to forget.  Forget!  It is so easy to say.  How shall we do it?”

“I will go away—­”

“If you have the heart to go away, then go.  But I will follow you.  The world is very small, they say—­it will not be hard for me to find you, wherever you are.”

“If I beg you—­if I ask it as the only kindness, the only act of friendship, the only proof of your love—­you will not come—­you will not do that—­”

“I will, if it costs your soul and mine.”

“Orsino!  You do not mean it—­you see how unhappy I am, how I am trying to do right, how hard it is!”

“I see that you are trying to ruin both our lives.  I will not let you.  Besides, you do not mean it.”

Maria Consuelo looked into his eyes and her own grew deep and dark.  Then as though she felt herself yielding, she turned away and sat down in a chair that stood apart from the rest.  Orsino followed her, and tried to take her hand, bending down to meet her downcast glance.

“You do not mean it, Consuelo,” he said earnestly.  “You do not mean one hundredth part of what you say.”

She drew her fingers from his, and turned her head sideways against the back of the chair so that she could not see him.  He still bent over her, whispering into her ear.

“You cannot go,” he said.  “You will not try to forget—­for neither you nor I can—­nor ought, cost what it might.  You will not destroy what is so much to us—­you would not, if you could.  Look at me, love—­do not turn away.  Let me see it all in your eyes, all the truth of it and of every word I say.”

Still she turned her face from him.  But she breathed quickly with parted lips and the colour rose slowly in her pale cheeks.

“It must be sweet to be loved as I love you, dear,” he said, bending still lower and closer to her.  “It must be some happiness to know that you are so loved.  Is there so much joy in your life that you can despise this?  There is none in mine, without you, nor ever can be unless we are always together—­always, dear, always, always.”