"Good Camille! now give me the other." "How do you know there is another ?" "I know you are not the man to kill a woman and spare yourself.

Come." "Josephine, have pity on me, do not deceive me; pray do not take this, my only friend, from me, unless you really love me." "I love you; I adore you," was her reply.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, but with her hand she sought his, and even as she uttered those loving words she coaxed the weapon from his now unresisting grasp.
"There, it is gone; you are saved from death--saved from crime." And with that, the danger was over, she trembled for the first time, and fell to sobbing hysterically.
He threw himself at her knees, and embraced them again and again, and begged her forgiveness in a transport of remorse and self-reproach.
She looked down with tender pity on him, and heard his cries of penitence and shame.
"Rise, Camille, and go home with me," said she faintly.
"Yes, Josephine." They went slowly and in silence.

Camille was too ashamed and penitent to speak; too full of terror too at the abyss of crime from which he had been saved.

The ancients feigned that a virgin could subdue a lion; perhaps they meant that a pure gentle nature can subdue a nature fierce but generous.

Lion-like Camille walked by Josephine's side with his eyes bent on the ground, the picture of humility and penitence.
"This is the last walk you and I shall take together," said Josephine solemnly.
"I know it," said he humbly.