"That you are you, and a man," said she, sighing. "In some way it
is--it is such a pity, I dare not suffer you to caress me. And
yet--and yet, I do love it."
"And your lips," said he, embracing her, "they are to me as the gate of
Elysium!"
"It may be we are now in the islands of the blest and know them not,"
she whispered.
She tried to draw herself away.
"I will not let you go. Indeed, I cannot let you go."
"And I am glad," she answered, with a little laugh, her hand caressing
his brow. "I do love the feel of your arms and your lips--beautiful
son of Varro!"
"I will not let you go until--until you have promised to be my bride.
Think, the term is only two years."
"Be it one or many, I will be your bride," said she. "And although you
were never to return, yet would I always wait for you and think of this
day."
She drew herself away and sat thoughtful, her chin upon her hands.
"Now are you most beautiful," said he, "with that little touch of
sorrow in your face. It gives me high thoughts to look at you.
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