That she should weep at all was a thought strange to him; that he should cause the tears was a sorrow which tortured him.

He touched her hair with his lips, he took her by the arms and would have set her apart; but she clung to him, hiding her face, and the sobs shook her.

Her breast was strained against him, he felt the beating of her heart, a fever ran through all his blood.

And as he held her close, a queer inconsequential thought came into his mind.
It shocked him, and he suddenly held her off.
"The blood upon my coat is wet," he cried.

The odium, the scandal of a flight which would make her name a byword from London to Budapest, that he could envisage; but that this blood upon his coat should stain the dress she wore--no! He saw indeed that the bodice was smeared a dark red.
"See, the blood stains you!" he cried.
"Why, then, I share it," she answered with a ringing voice of pride.