"What if I were to ask you to fly with me now?" he said, gloomily.
"Now!" she repeated, lifting her frightened eyes to his.
His face darkened, with its old look of savage resentment. "Hear
me, Maruja," he said, taking her hands tightly in his own. "When I
forgot myself--when I was mad that day in the conservatory, the
only expiation I could think of was to swear in my inmost soul that
I would never take advantage of your forgiveness, that I would
never tempt you to forget yourself, your friends, your family, for
me, an unknown outcast. When I found you pitied me, and listened
to my love--I was too weak to forego the one ray of sunshine in my
wretched life--and, thinking that I had a prospect before me in an
idea I promised to reveal to you later, I swore never to beguile
you or myself in that hope by any act that might bring you to
repent it--or myself to dishonor. But I taxed myself too much,
Maruja. I have asked too much of you. You are right, darling;
this secrecy--this deceit--is unworthy of us! Every hour of it--
blest as it has been to me--every moment--sweet as it is--blackens
the purity of our only defense, makes you false and me a coward!
It must end here--to-day! Maruja, darling, my precious one! God
knows what may be the success of my plans. We have but one chance
now. I must leave here to-day, never to return, or I must take you
with me. Do not start, Maruja--but hear me out. Dare you risk
all? Dare you fly with me now, to-night, to the old Padre at the
ruined Mision, and let him bind us in those bonds that none dare
break? We can take Faquita with us--it is but a few miles--and we
can return and throw ourselves at your mother's feet.
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