"Done me wrong, madame?" he asked, smiling down at her, marvelling at the small troubles with which women love to torment their minds. "Nay, an it be so, madame, 'tis forgiven. Prithee, think no more on't."
"Oh! but I must," she cried wildly; "I have thought on it day and night since 'twas committed; thought on it every moment till I felt I must go mad an I could not see you to confess to't."
"Nay, madame, indeed it was not worth your thought, whatever it be," he answered gallantly. "That you have given me place in your gentle thoughts should be sufficient atonement."
But she, covering her face, burst on a sudden into bitter weeping.
"Oh, do not talk so!" she cried. "You do not know. You do not know."
His face grew grave. He took a step forward and leaned over her in deep distress.
"Nay, madame, I entreat you." he said gently; "indeed, you must not weep for such a thing. Come"—he coaxed lightly—"what is this grievous wrong? Why, you could scarce be more distressed had you betrayed me."
Then she dropped her hands and faced him.
"You have said it," she cried in a dry voice; "'twas indeed I who betrayed you."
He started from her and stood upright, looking down on her in amazement, in slowly gathering wrath.