"
He stretched out a hand to her in the half-darkness. "I send the blood of
my heart to you," he continued. "I am a son of kings. Fleda, daughter of
the Ry of Rys, come to me. I have been bad, but I can be good. I have
killed, but I will live at peace. I have cursed, but I will speak the
word of blessing. I have trespassed, but I will keep to my own, if you
will come to me."
Suddenly he dropped to the ground, lighting on his feet like an animal
with a soft rebound. Stretching up his arms, he made soft murmuring of
endearment.
She had listened, fascinated in spite of herself by the fire and meaning
of his words. She felt that in most part it was true, that it was meant;
and, whatever he was, he was yet a man offering his heart and life,
offering a love that she despised, and yet which was love and passion of
a kind. It was a passion natural to the people from whom she came, and to
such as Jethro Fawe it was something more than sensual longing and the
aboriginal desire of possession. She realized it, and was not wholly
revolted by it, even while her mind was fleeing to where the Master
Gorgio lay wounded, it might be unto death; even while she knew that this
man before her, by some means, had laid Ingolby low. She was all at once
a human being torn by contending forces.
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