He was no longer the humble
suppliant of that morning in the park, spoke no more of his diffident
hopes, his half-mystical aspirations, his incurable sense of sorrow.
This time he did not beg and entreat. It was the voice of passion, full
of audacity and virile power, a voice I did not know in him.
'"You love me, you love me--you cannot help but love me--tell me that
you love me!"
'His horse was close beside mine. I felt him brush me; I almost felt the
breath of his burning words upon my cheek, and I thought I must swoon
with anguish and fall into his arms.
'"Tell me that you love me," he repeated obstinately, relentlessly.
"Tell me that you love me!"
'Under the terrible strain of his insistent voice, I believe I answered
wildly--whether with a cry or a sob, I do not know--
'"I love you, I love you, I love you!" and I set my horse at a gallop
down the narrow rugged path between the crowded tree-trunks, unconscious
of what I was doing.
'He followed me crying--"Maria, Maria, stop--you will hurt yourself."
'But I fled blindly on. I do not know how my horse managed to keep clear
of the trees, I do not know why I was not thrown; I am incapable of
retracing my impressions in that mad flight through the dark wood, past
the gleaming patches of water. When at last I came out upon the road,
near the bridge, I seemed to have come out of some hallucination.
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