"What have you done?" literally shrieked Valencia.
"Nothing that you or man can blame, Miss St. Just! Can you dream that, sinful as I am, I could ever harbour a thought toward her of which I should be ashamed before the angels of God?"
He looked up as he spoke, with an utter humility and an intense honesty, which unnerved her at once.
"Oh, my Saint Père!" and she held out both her hands. "Forgive me, if— only for a moment—"
"I am not your Saint Père, nor any one's! I am a poor, weak, conceited, miserable man, who by his accursed impertinence has broken the heart of the being whom he loves best on earth."
Valencia started: but ere she could ask for an explanation, he rejoined wildly—
"How is she? Tell me only that, this once! Has it killed her? Does she hate him?"
"Adores him more than ever. Oh, Major Campbell! it is too piteous, too piteous."
He covered his face with his hands, shuddering. "Thank God! yes, thank God! So it should be. Let her love him to the last, and win her martyr's crown! Now, Valencia St. Just, sit down, if but for five minutes; and listen, once for all, to the last words, perhaps, you will ever hear me speak; unless she wants you—?"
"No, no! Tell me all, Saint Père!" said Valencia, "for I am walking in a dream—a double dream!" as the new thought of Headley, and that walk, came over her. "Tell me all at once, while I have wits left to comprehend."