'Sweetest of all sweet loves,' I cried, for the sign of a tear defeated me; 'what possibility could make me ever give up Lorna?'
'Dearest of all dears,' she answered; 'if you dearly love me, what possibility could ever make me give you up, dear?'
Upon that there was no more forbearing, but I kissed and clasped her, whether she were Countess, or whether Queen of England; mine she was, at least in heart; and mine she should be wholly. And she being of the same opinion, nothing was said between us.
'Now, Lorna,' said I, as she hung on my arm, willing to trust me anywhere, 'come to your little plant-house, and hear my moving story.'
'No story can move me much, dear,' she answered rather faintly, for any excitement stayed with her; 'since I know your strength of kindness, scarcely any tale can move me, unless it be of yourself, love; or of my poor mother.'
'It is of your poor mother, darling. Can you bear to hear it?' And yet I wondered why she did not say as much of her father.
'Yes, I can bear anything. But although I cannot see her, and have long forgotten, I could not bear to hear ill of her.'
'There is no ill to hear, sweet child, except of evil done to her. Lorna, you are of an ill-starred race.'
'Better that than a wicked race,' she answered with her usual quickness, leaping at conclusion; 'tell me I am not a Doone, and I will--but I cannot love you more.'
'You are not a Doone, my Lorna, for that, at least, I can answer; though I know not what your name is.'
'And my father--your father--what I mean is--'
'Your father and mine never met one another. Your father was killed by an accident in the Pyrenean mountains, and your mother by the Doones; or at least they caused her death, and carried you away from her.'
All this, coming as in one breath upon the sensitive maiden, was more than she could bear all at once; as any but a fool like me must of course have known. She lay back on the garden bench, with her black hair shed on the oaken bark, while her colour went and came and only by that, and her quivering breath, could any one say that she lived and thought. And yet she pressed my hand with hers, that I might tell her all of it.