"You
will get well. You are--injured badly--" After a short pause she
added, "for me."
There was a long silence--I thought it hardly worth while to
contradict her--and then I said simply, "Why are you crying,
Desiree?"
She looked at me as though she had not heard; then, after another
silence, her voice came, so low that it barely reached my ears:
"For this--and for what might have been, my friend."
"But you have said--"
"I know! Would you make me doubt again? Do not! Ah"--she
passed her hand gently over my forehead and touched the tips of
her fingers to my burning eyes--"you must have cared for me in
that other world. I will not doubt it; unless you speak, and you
must not. Nothing would have been too high for us. We could have
opened any door--even the door to happiness."
"But you said once--forgive me if I remind you of it now--you
said that you are--you called yourself 'La Marana.'"
She shrank back, exclaiming: "Paul! Indeed, I need to forgive
you!"
"Still, it is true," I persisted, turning to look at her. The
movement caused me to halt, closing my eyes, while a great wave
of pain swept over me from head to foot.
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