crying, holding herself
hard so that her tears should not be known. He waited. The
tension continued--perhaps she was not crying--then
suddenly relapsed with a sharp catch of a sob. His heart flamed
with love and suffering for her. Kneeling carefully on the bed,
so that his earthy boots should not touch it, he took her in his
arms to comfort her. The sobs gathered in her, she was sobbing
bitterly. But not to him. She was still away from him.

He held her against his breast, whilst she sobbed, withheld
from him, and all his body vibrated against her.

"Don't cry--don't cry," he said, with an odd simplicity.
His heart was calm and numb with a sort of innocence of love,
now.

She still sobbed, ignoring him, ignoring that he held her.
His lips were dry.

"Don't cry, my love," he said, in the same abstract way. In
his breast his heart burned like a torch, with suffering. He
could not bear the desolateness of her crying. He would have
soothed her with his blood. He heard the church clock chime, as
if it touched him, and he waited in suspense for it to have gone
by. It was quiet again.

"My love," he said to her, bending to touch her wet face with
his mouth. He was afraid to touch her. How wet her face was! His
body trembled as he held her. He loved her till he felt his
heart and all his veins would burst and flood her with his hot,
healing blood. He knew his blood would heal and restore her.

She was becoming quieter. He thanked the God of mercy that at
last she was becoming quieter. His head felt so strange and
blazed. Still he held her close, with trembling arms. His blood
seemed very strong, enveloping her.

And at last she began to draw near to him, she nestled to
him. His limbs, his body, took fire and beat up in flames. She
clung to him, she cleaved to his body. The flames swept him, he
held her in sinews of fire. If she would kiss him! He bent his
mouth down. And her mouth, soft and moist, received him. He felt
his veins would burst with anguish of thankfulness, his heart
was mad with gratefulness, he could pour himself out upon her
for ever.

When they came to themselves, the night was very dark. Two
hours had gone by. They lay still and warm and weak, like the
new-born, together. And there was a silence almost of the
unborn. Only his heart was weeping happily, after the pain. He
did not understand, he had yielded, given way. There was
no understanding. There could be only acquiescence and
submission,