He stood for a moment or two with bowed head, his breath laboring, his face dark.
“There is no more to be said,” he said, at last, and his voice sounded harsh and strained. “I can not make you believe me if you will not. You must continue to think me a liar and a scoundrel. Some day you will know that I am speaking truly. God grant it!”
“Never!” she breathed, Ada’s voice still in her ears.
He looked at her—a long, yearning, despairing look—then he turned his eyes away, as one turns away from a treasure that has slipped from one’s hand forever.
“I have been guilty; I have pleaded guilty to your accusation, Esmeralda,” he said, at last. “What do you wish me to do—to have done? I will do anything; I owe it to you.”
She tried to think.
“If I could only get away—back to Three Star!” she said, rather to herself than to him.
He winced.
“I do not think you could do that,” he said, hoarsely.
She drew a long sigh.