"Dear," he said, "do you believe he went to Ailsa with his story
about you?"
"Oh, yes, yes, I am sure. What else could it be that has angered
her--that drives me away from her--that burns me with the dreadful
gaze she turns on me--chills me with her more dreadful
silence? . . . Why did he do it? I don't know--oh, I don't
know. . . . Because I had never even spoken to him--in those days
that I have tried so hard--so hard to forget----"
He said slowly: "He is a coward. I have known that for a long
time. But most men are. The disgrace lies in acting like one. . .
And I--that is why I didn't run in battle. . . . Because, that
first day, when they fired on our waggons, _I saw him riding in the
road behind us_. Nobody else suspected him to be within miles. I
saw him. And--_he galloped the wrong way_. And that is why
I--did what I did! He shocked me into doing it. . . . But I never
before have told a soul. I would not tell even you--but the man,
yesterday, put himself beyond the pale. And it can make no
difference now, for he carries the mark into his grave."
He shuddered slightly. "God forbid I hold him up to scorn. I
might, this very moment, be what he is now.
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