He stood quite still until the stranger entered the room; then he raised his haggard face, and the two men looked at each other.
“You have suffered,” said Kenelm Eyrle; “I can see that. I never thought to meet you thus, Sir Ronald.”
“No,” said the faint voice.
“We both loved her. You won her, and she sent me away. But, by heaven! if she had been mine, I would have taken better care of her than you have done.”
“I did not fail in care or kindness,” was the meek reply.
“Perhaps I am harsh,” he said, more gently. “You look very ill, Sir Ronald; forgive me if I am abrupt; my heart is broken with this terrible story.”
“Do you think it is less terrible for me?” said Sir Ronald, with a sick shudder. “Do you understand how awful even the word murder is?”
“Yes; it is because I understand so well that I am here. Ronald,” he added, “there has been ill feeling between us since you won the prize I would have died for. We were like brothers when we were boys; even now, if you were prosperous and happy, as I have seen you in my dreams, I would shun, avoid and hate you, if I could.”
His voice grew sweet and musical with the deep feelings stirred in his heart.
“Now that you are in trouble that few men know; now that the bitterest blow the hand of fate can give has fallen on you, let me be your true friend, comrade and brother again.”