Then, my
reason grasping the motive of that fierceness, a sudden joy pervaded
me. It was a fierceness breathing that hatred that is a part of
love, than which, it is true, no hatred can be more deadly. And yet
so eloquently did it tell me of those very feelings which she sought
jealously to conceal, that, moved by a sudden impulse, I stepped
close up to her.
"Roxalanne," I said fervently, "you do not hope for it. What would
your life be if I were dead? Child, child, you love me even as I
love you." I caught her suddenly to me with infinite tenderness,
with reverence almost. "Can you lend no ear to the voice of this
love? Can you not have faith in me a little? Can you not think
that if I were quite as unworthy as you make-believe to your very
self, this love could have no place?"
"It has no place!" she cried. "You lie - as in all things else.
I do not love you. I hate you. Dieu! How I hate you!"
She had lain in my arms until then, with upturned face and piteous,
frightened eyes - like a bird that feels itself within the toils of
a snake, yet whose horror is blent with a certain fascination. Now,
as she spoke, her will seemed to reassert itself, and she struggled
to break from me. But as her fierceness of hatred grew, so did my
fierceness of resolve gain strength, and I held her tightly.
"Why do you hate me?" I asked steadily. "Ask yourself, Roxalanne,
and tell me what answer your heart makes. Does it not answer that
indeed you do not hate me - that you love me?"
"Oh, God, to be so insulted!" she cried out.
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