“What is your decision?” he asked again.

She shook her head.  Her agony of fear was passing, but still she could not tell him yet.

He waited silently, his face so shaded by his hand that she could not read its expression.

“Why don’t you answer me?” he said at last.

“I—­can’t!” she said, with a sob.

“You leave the decision to me?” he questioned.

She did not answer.

He straightened himself slowly, without rising.

“My decision is made,” he said.  “Give me your hand; not that one—­the left.”

She obeyed him trembling.  He had taken something from his pocket.  With a start she saw what it was.

“Oh, no, Piet—­no!” she cried.

But he had his way, for he would not suffer her resistance to thwart him.  Very gravely and resolutely he slipped a gold ring on to her finger.

“And you will give me your word to keep it there,” he said, looking up at her.

Her lips were quivering; she could not speak.

“Never mind,” he said; “I can trust you.”

He released her hand with the words, and there followed a brief silence while Nan stood struggling vainly for self-control.

Failing at length, she sank suddenly down upon her knees at the table hiding her face and crying as if her heart would break.

“My dear Anne!” he said.  And then in a different tone, his hand upon her bowed head:  “What is it child?  Don’t cry, don’t cry!  Is it so hard for you to be my wife?”

She could not answer him.  His kindness was so strange to her.  She could only sob under that gentle, comforting hand.

“Hush!” he said.  “Hush!  Don’t be so distressed.  Anne, listen!  I will never be a savage to you again.  I swear it on my honour, on my faith in you, and on the love I have for you.  What more can I do?”

Still she could not answer him, but her tears were ceasing.  Yielding to the pressure of his hand, she had drawn nearer to him.  But she did not raise her head.

After a long, quivering silence she spoke.

“Piet, I—­I want you to—­forgive me; not just for this, but for—­a thousand things.  Piet, I—­I didn’t know you really loved me.”

“I have always loved you, Anne,” he said, in his deep, slow voice.

“And you—­forgive me,” she said faintly.

“I have forgiven you,” he answered gravely.

She made a slight, shy movement, and he took his hand from her head.  But in an instant impulsively she caught at it, drawing it down against her burning face.

“And you are not angry with me any more?” she murmured.

“No,” he said again.

She was silent for a space, not moving, still tightly holding his hand.

He could not see her face, nor did he seek to do so.  Perhaps he feared to scare away her new-found courage.

At length, in a very small voice, she broke the silence.