The officer stepped toward her. Norman
stood unmoved. The Italian's eye wandered restlessly, his hand fell to
his sword. Norman's arms were folded, and his face set.
Mae looked at one, then at the other, perplexedly. Then she understood.
Like lightning, a terrible temptation flashed into her mind. The Italian
loved her, would shield, protect, honor her. Norman must hate her, would
always despise her. Should she lift her little weak woman's hand and
place it in the man's hand ready to claim it, or stand still and be
crushed by that other hand there?
Ah! she could not do it. She tried once. She held out weakly her right
hand toward Bero; but the left stretched itself involuntarily to Norman.
Then the two met in each other's pitiful clasp over her bent head, and
with a low wailing cry she fell in a little heap on the sand.
When she opened her eyes, they were both bending over her. "Take me
home," she gasped to Norman. He glared at the officer. "Go!" he said.
Bero put his hand to his sword.
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