"My lord looks weary to-night," said Merla softly, after they had
greeted each other, and had sat down side by side with their backs
to the low wall.
"Yes, I am tired with thinking. What is to be the end of this,
Merla? Where is our love drifting us to?"
"Why does my lord concern himself with that? We are in the hands of
Fate."
Stanhope moved impatiently.
"Our fate is what we make it."
"It is not wise to enquire about our fate," replied Merla, and he
saw her face grow grave with resolution in the dim light. "But I
can tell you, if you like, what it will be: when you are ready, you
will go back to your own people, your own life, and you will be
very happy."
"And you--?" asked Stanhope in a whisper.
"I shall then have lived my life. I shall die and be buried out
there," and she motioned to the desert. "I shall have given my lord
happiness for a time: think what delight, what honour!"
Stanhope shuddered.
"Don't, don't, I can't bear to hear you; do you ask nothing for
yourself from life?"
"Life has given me all now," returned Merla, with a proud smile on
her face.
"Why should we not go home to my land together?" said Stanhope
passionately, in that sudden revolt against the laws of custom that
stirs all humanity at times. "Why should I not take you to live
with me for always to be my wife? who would forbid me?"
Merla shook her head, and pressed hard on his hand lying beside her
on the sand.
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