"—But I have asked Heaven to forgive me."
Ruth gave a little start and stared at him doubtfully.
"Yes," he went on, "as I lay pinned—those hours through, waiting for death—something opened to me; a new life, I hope."
"And by a blessing I do not understand—by a blessing of blessings— you were given back to it, Oliver."
"Back to it?" he repeated. "You do not understand me. The blessing was God's special grace; the new life I speak of was a life acknowledging that grace."
There was silence for many seconds; for a minute almost, Ruth's hands had locked themselves together, and she pulled at the intertwisted fingers.
"I beg your pardon," she said at length. "You are right—I do not understand." Her voice had lost its ring; the sound of it was leaden, spiritless. But he failed to note this, being preoccupied with his own thoughts. Nor did he observe her face.
"I would not speak of this before," he went on, still with his eyes turned to the window, "because I wanted to think it all out. But it is true, Ruth; I am a changed man."
"I hope not."
Again he did not hear, or he failed to heed. "Not," he pursued, "that any amount of thinking could alter the truth. The mercy of God has been revealed to me. When a man has been through such horrors— lying there, with that infernal woman held to me—"