I had loved her
since boyhood. I would be a coward--then a wild fear. Perhaps of
jealousy.
"The Rhamda? Is he your husband? You are the same--"
"Oh," she answered, "why do you say it?" Her eyes snapped and she
grew rigid. "The Rhamda! My husband! If you only knew. I hate him!
We are enemies. It was he who opened the Blind Spot. I am here
because he is evil. To watch him. I love your world, I love it
all. I would save it. I love--"
She dropped her head. Whatever she was, she was not above sobbing.
I touched her hair; it was of the softest texture I have ever
seen; the lustre was like all the beauty of night woven into silk.
She loved, loved; I could love--I was on the point of surrender.
"Tell me," I asked, "just one thing more. If I gave you this ring
would you save the doctor and Chick Watson?"
She raised her head; her eyes glistened; but she did not answer.
"Would you?"
She shook her head. "I cannot," she answered. "That cannot be. I
can only save you for--for--Charlotte."
Was it vanity in myself? I don't know. It seemed to me that it was
hard for her to say it. Frankly, I loved her. I knew it. I loved
Charlotte. I loved them both. But I held to my purpose.
"Are the professor and Watson living?"
"They are."
"Are they conscious?"
She nodded. "Harry," she said, "I can tell you that. They are
living and conscious. You have seen them.
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