Here was the woman he loved, looking at him in such a way, with such an air and such a bearing, her hand upon her heart--was that heart beating for him?
Was she trying to still it, to control it, because---- His approach was slow, almost terribly deliberate, like the movement of the old Guard under Dorsenne--_Le Beau Dorsenne_!--against the heights of Pratzen on the glorious yet dreadful day of Austerlitz.

His advance was irresistible, but unhurried, as if there must be a tremendous clash of arms in a moment to which haste could lend nothing, from the dignity and splendor of which hurry would detract.

At another time the woman might have shrunk back faltering, she might have voiced a protest, or temporized, but now, in the presence of death itself, as it were, she stood steady waiting for him.

Enjoying the luxury of looking upon him unrestrained, her heart going out to him as he drew nearer, nearer, nearer, she found herself tremblingly longing for his actual touch.
Now his arms went out to her, she felt them slowly fold around her, and then, like a whirlwind released, he crushed her against his breast, and, as she hung there, her throbbing heart making answer to the beating of his own, he kissed her again, again, again.

Her heart almost stopped its beating.