Yes, your pride is your god--a pitiful sort of a god! And as to Poland--" He winced at this word.

After a pause, Antoinette continued: "It is she herself who will give, or rather lend, you to me.
I solemnly promise that if ever she has need of you I will say to her, 'Here he is, take him'; and to you, yourself, I will say, 'She calls you--go.' But speak to me and look at me; you will not die of so doing.
Are you so very much afraid of me?
Come, have courage to repeat to me what you have said to others ?" He fell back into a chair, where he remained, his arms hanging helplessly at his sides, his head drooping on his breast, and he murmured: "I knew well that if I saw you again I should be lost." "Say, rather, saved.

Your mind was sick; I have cured you.

I work miracles; you once took the pains to write me so.

Will you touch my hand?
That will not bind you to anything; you can return it to me if you choose." He took the hand she extended to him; he did not carry it to his lips, but he held it within his own.
"Listen to me," she resumed.