With a cry of joy he clasped her to him in a fierce ecstasy.  All the pent-up feelings in both their souls let loose at last.

It was a moment which caused time and place and all other things to be forgotten in a glory as great as though eternity had come.

“My darling, my darling!” he murmured, kissing her hair and brow and eyelids.  “Oh! the hideous cruelty that it is all too late and this must be good-bye.”

But Sabine clung to him half sobbing, telling him she could not bear it; he must not leave her now.  And so they stood clasped together, trembling with love and misery.

“Darling,” at last he besought her, while he unclasped her tender hands from round his neck.  “Darling, do not tempt me—­it is frightful pain, but I must keep my word.  You had reason once to think that I was an uncontrollable brute, but you shall not be able to do so any more.  I would never respect myself—­or you—­again if I let you make me faithless to Henry now.  It is cruel sorrow, but we cannot think of ourselves; you know, we used too lightly for our own ends what should have been an awfully sacred tie.  Do you remember, Sabine, we swore to God to love and be faithful forever—­not meaning a word we said—­and now we are punished—­” A great sob shook his deep voice.

“Darling child—­I love you madly, madly, Sabine—­dear little one—­but you and I are just driftwood, floating down the tide—­not like Henry, who is a splendid fellow of great use to England.  It is impossible that his whole life should be ruined and sacrificed for our selfishness.  Darling—­” and he paused and drew her to him again fondly.  “It is our own fault.  We have let the situation develop through indecision and, I expect, wounded vanity and weakness—­and now we must have strength to abide by our words.  Henry isn’t young like we are, you see.  I honestly believe it would knock him right out if anything went wrong.”

But Sabine clung to him still.  She could think of nothing but that she loved him, and that he was her mate and her husband, and why must she be torn from his side for the happiness of any other man.

She was in an agony of grief.  And then suddenly back to her came the words of Pere Anselme, heavy as the stroke of doom.  Yes, she had taken matters into her own hands and presumed to direct fate, and now all that she could do was to be true to herself and to her word.  Michael was right; they must say good-bye.  Henry must not be sacrificed.

She raised her pitiful face from his breast where it was buried, and he framed it in both his hands, and it would have been difficult to recognize his bold eyes, so filled were they with tenderness and love.

“Sabine,” he commanded, fondly, “tell me that, after all, you have forgiven me for making you stay that night.  You know that we were perfectly happy at the end of it, and it will be such pain for me to have to remember all the rest of my life that you hold resentment.  Darling, if only you had stayed!  Oh!  I would have cherished you and petted you,” here he smoothed her hair, and murmured love words in her ear with his wonderful charm, until Sabine felt that neither heaven nor earth nor anything else mattered but only he.