He was single-minded. He had but one aim, one object. He saw the
haggard faces of brave men hopeless; he heard the dying cries of women
and children. Such an opportunity of saving God's elect, of redeeming
the innocent, was in his eyes a gift from Heaven. And having these
thoughts and seeing her hesitate--hesitate when every movement caused him
agony, so imperative was haste, so precious the opportunity--he could
bear the suspense no longer. When she did not answer he stooped forward,
until his knees touched the thwart on which Carlat had sat; then, without
a word, he flung himself forward, and, with one hand far extended,
grasped the packet.
Had he not moved, she would have done his will; almost certainly she
would have done it. But, thus attacked, she resisted instinctively; she
clung to the letters.
"No!" she cried. "No! Let go, Monsieur!" And she tried to drag the
packet from him.
"Give it me!"
"Let go, Monsieur! Do you hear?" she repeated. And, with a vigorous
jerk, she forced it from him--he had caught it by the edge only--and held
it behind her. "Go back, and--"
"Give it me!" he panted.
"I will not!"
"Then throw it overboard!"
"I will not!" she cried again, though his face, dark with passion, glared
into hers, and it was clear that the man, possessed by one idea only, was
no longer master of himself.
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