“My God!” he cried, “it is surely impossible. Those hands of yours are surely not stained with crimes so abhorrent.”
“I am guilty,” she said, “and I alone. Do your worst to me now.”
“I refuse to believe you. I cannot credit it. You to do such a deed.”
“Yes,” she replied, and there was no hesitation, nor fear in her voice, “I did it, Kenelm; I am guilty.”
He stood in silence, his emotion too great for words. This gentle, gracious, lovely lady a murderess! Ronald innocent after all? She, whom he had looked upon as pure and peerless, guilty of this monstrous crime?
“I cannot believe it,” he repeated.
“Yes; it is true, I would not have told you had you promised to let the dread memory of it die. I would not have mentioned it if you had promised to—to spare my husband. Guilty as I am, I dare not double my guilt by letting him die for what was my crime.”
He was still looking at her, as though he were in a dream.
“Do with me what you will,” she said. “I prayed, I pleaded for Ronald’s life; I do not even ask for mine.”
“Why not?”