She feared his kiss, yet never moved, staring up with fixed, dilated eyes as if fascinated by his dark, brooding gaze.

He paused, hovering above her upturned face as hovers the hawk above the dove.
"Child," he said at last, and his voice was soft and winning from very sadness, "child, why do you fear me ?" The truth of it went home to her.

She feared him; she feared the strength that lay behind that calm; she feared the masterfulness of his wild but inscrutably hidden nature; she was afraid to surrender to such a man as this, afraid that in the hot crucible of his love her own nature would be dissolved, transmuted, and rendered part of his.

Yet, though the truth was now made plain to her, she thrust it from her.
"I do not fear you," said she, and her voice at least rang fearlessly.
"Do you hate me, then ?" he asked.

Her glance grew troubled and fell away from his; it sought the calm of the river, gleaming golden in the sunset.