ROSMER.
Oh, is this true, Rebecca?
Rebecca.
All the rest—the horrible sense-intoxicated desire—passed far, far away from me. All the whirling passions settled down into quiet and silence. Rest descended on my soul—a stillness as on one of our northern bird-cliffs under the midnight sun.
Rosmer.
Tell me more of this. Tell me all you can.
Rebecca.
There is not much more, dear. Only this—it was love that was born in me. The great self-denying love, that is content with life, as we two have lived it together.
Rosmer.
Oh, if I had only had the faintest suspicion of all this!
Rebecca.
It is best as it is. Yesterday—when you asked me if I would be your wife—I cried out with joy
Rosmer.
Yes, did you not, Rebecca! I thought that was the meaning of your cry.
Rebecca.
For a moment, yes. I had forgotten myself. It was my old buoyant will that was struggling to be free. But it has no energy left now—no power of endurance.
