no further; she had fallen back against the window-sill, and the blue and gold saint, the peasant in her coarse night-dress, was helpless under his kisses. Ravenously he kissed her. Her body was cold and strong under his arms. The cold moonlit air blew in upon them from the window.
Then he heard her saying, as with all her force she resisted him, 'Sortez:—sortez:—sortez—' in a suffocated voice.
Terror and fury were in the voice, though it spoke with no divided will, though the hands that thrust him from her were as strong, as untremulous as a peasant's.
He yielded to them, but fell at her feet and clasped her round the knees. 'Tell me that you forgive me.'
Her hands—against his head, against his shoulder—thrust him from her. They felt like iron. This was no courtesan. This was his Eurydice.
'Only say that you forgive me. I am mad with love of you.'
'Sortez! Sortez!' she repeated.
But Graham, hiding his face against her side, clasping her round like a drowning man, muttered savagely: 'You must forgive me. You must say it. You love me and you must say it. I will do all that you tell me. I will even go away—for ever. But I will not leave you now unless I am forgiven.'
'I forgive you. It was my fault as well. Only go,' said Mademoiselle Ludérac.
His arms fell from her. He stumbled to his feet.
