“As well as I can remember; and I have cause for a good memory.”

“Go on,” she replied simply.

So I unrolled the whole chronicle of our unhappy fates, and even read to her Lucy Railton’s letter which I had brought with me.  Then, as I ceased, for full a minute we sat in absolute silence, reading each other’s gaze.

“Let me see the letter,” she said, and held out her hand for it.

I gave it to her.  She read it slowly through and handed it back.

“Yes, it is my mother’s letter,” she said, slowly.

Then again silence fell upon us.  I could hear the clock tick slowly on the mantelpiece, and the beating of my own heart that raced and outstripped it.  That was all; until at length the slow, measured footfall of the timepiece grew maddening to hear; it seemed a symbol of the unrelenting doom pursuing us, and I longed to rise and break it to atoms.

I could stand it no longer.

“Claire, tell me that this will not—­cannot alter you—­that you are mine yet, as you were before.”

“This is impossible,” she said, very gravely and quietly.

“Impossible?  Oh, no, no, do not say that!  You cannot, you must not say that!”

“Yes, Jasper,” she repeated, and her face was pallid as snow; “it is impossible.”

But as I heard my doom, I arose and fought it with blind despair.

“Claire, you do not know what you are saying.  You love me, Claire; you have told me so, and I love you as my very soul.  Surely, then, you will not say this thing.  How were we to know?  How could you have told?  Oh, Claire! is it that you do not love me?”

Her eyes were full of infinite compassion and tenderness, but her lips were firm and cold.

“You know that I love you.”

“Then, oh, my love! how can this come between us?  What does it matter that our fathers fought and killed each other, if only we love?  Surely, surely Heaven cannot fix the seal of this crime upon us for ever?  Speak, Claire, and tell me that you will be mine in spite of all!”

“It cannot be,” she answered, very gently.

“Cannot be!” I echoed.  “Then I was right, and you do not love, but fancied that you did for a while.  Love, love, was that fair?  No power on earth—­no, nor in heaven—­should have made me cast you off so.”

My rage died out before the mute reproach of those lovely eyes.  I caught the white hand.

“Forgive me, Claire; I was desperate, and knew not what I was saying.  I know you love me—­you have said so, and you are truth itself; truth and all goodness.  But if you have loved, then you can love me still.  Remember our text, Claire, ‘Love is strong as death.’  Strong as death, and can it be overcome so easily?”

She was trembling terribly, and from the little hand within mine I could feel her agitation.  But though the soft eyes spoke appealingly as they were raised in answer, I could see, behind all their anguish, an immutable resolve.