He knew not what to do.

Whatever was the cause, it now hurt him horribly to see her weep--weep like this--as if with broken heart.
For her suffering was caused by remembrance--remembrance that, absorbed in her own concerns and heart-burnings over her love, she had forgotten the little one lately; and he was far away and might now be ill, and even dead.
She sobbed and sobbed and clasped her hands, and Tristram could not bear it any longer.
"Zara!" he said, distractedly.

"For God's sake do not cry like this! What is it?
Can I not help you--Zara ?" And he sat down beside her and put his arm round her, and tried to draw her to him--he must comfort her whatever caused her pain.
But she started up and ran from him; he was the cause of her forgetfulness.
[Illustration: "'Zara!' he said distractedly....

'Can I not help you ?'"] "Do not!" she cried passionately, that southern dramatic part of her nature coming out, here in her abandon of self-control.

"Is it not enough for me to know that it is you and thoughts of you which have caused me to forget him!--Go! I must be alone!"-- and like a fawn she fled down one of the paths, and beyond a great yew hedge, and so disappeared from view.
And Tristram sat on the stone bench, too stunned to move.
This was a confession from her, then--he realized, when his power came back to him.