“Nay—­I implore you, not so—­not yet, till I have told you what troubles me, what keeps me from throwing myself wholly, freely into the arms of happiness.  I know what you will ask—­what you have a right to ask; but before you speak, Constantine, remember once more all that has so often saddened our life, even as children, that has torn us asunder like a whirlwind although, ever since we can remember, our hearts have flowed towards each other.  But I need not remind you of what binds us—­that we both know well, only too well...”

“Nay,” he replied boldly:  “That we are only beginning to know in all its fullness and rapture.  The other thing the whirlwind of which you speak, has indeed tossed and tormented me, more than it has you perhaps; but since I have known that you could shed tears for me and love me I have had no more anxieties; I know for certain that all must come right!  You love me as I am, Gorgo.  I am no dreamer nor poet; but I can look forward to finding life lovely and noble if shared with you, so long as one—­only one thing is sure.  I ask you plainly and truly:  Is your heart as full of love for me as mine is for you?  When I was away did you think of me every day, every night, as I thought of you, day and night without fail?”

Gorgo’s head sank and blushes dyed her cheeks as she replied:  “I love you, and I have never even thought of any one else.  My thoughts and yearnings followed you all the while you were away... and yet... oh, Constantine!  That one thing . . .”

“It cannot part us,” said the young man passionately, “since we have love—­the mighty and gracious power which conquers all things!  When love beckon:  the whirlwind dies away like the breath from a child’s lips; it can bridge over any abyss; it created the world and preserves the existence of humanity, it can remove mountains—­and these are the most beautiful words of the greatest of the apostles:  ’It is long suffering and kind, it believes all things, hopes all things’ and it knows no end.  It remains with us till death and will teach us to find that peace whose bulwark and adornment, whose child and parent it is!”

Gorgo had looked lovingly at him while he spoke, and he, pressing her hand to his lips went on with ardent feeling: 

“Yes, you shall be mine—­I dare, and I will go to ask you of your father.  There are some words spoken in one’s life which can never be forgotten.  Once your father said that he wished that I was his son.  On the march, in camp, in battle, wherever I have wandered, those words have been in my mind; for me they could have but one meaning:  I would be his son—­I shall be his son when Gorgo is my wife!—­And now the time has come . . .”