"Well—before we go—since it is an enchanted wood, kiss me once, will you?" His voice trembled, and he caught his breath suddenly. "I'm—Teresa, I'm going to-morrow."
"To-morrow? … No, you can't be! You don't mean it. …"
"Ah, but I do. I got a despatch this morning. I must go. So. …"
He waited, looking at her with eyes that seemed suddenly tired, seared.
"So, kiss me good-bye, dear," he said.
"To-morrow? " said Teresa confusedly. "Why didn't you tell me? Don't go. …"
He was silent, waiting—his face set and sad. She leaned toward him, flushing suddenly, her eyes veiling themselves. Crayven took her face in his two hands, and his gaze lingered on its every line and contour, its trembling colour, the tremor of the eyelashes and lips. Then he clasped her close and kissed her—a long kiss.
For him it was the end. There was a deep tenderness, a protecting gentleness, in his relinquishment, as he set her free.
