"Leone," he said, gently, "every word of yours is a sword in my heart. Why did I do it? Ah me, why? I have no word of excuse for myself, not one. I might say that I was under woman's influence, but that would not excuse me. I take the whole blame, the whole sin upon myself. Can you ever forgive me?"
She raised her face to his, all wet with tears.
"I ought not to forgive you," she said; "I ought to drive you from my presence; I ought to curse you with my ruined life, but I cannot. Oh, Lance, if I only lay under the waters of the mill-stream, dead."
The passion of her grief was terrible to see. He forgot all and everything but her—the wife at home, the plighted vows, honor, truth, loyalty—all and everything except the girl whom he had loved with a mad love, and her grief. He drew her to his breast, he kissed away the shining tears; he kissed the trembling lips.
"Leone, you will drive me mad. Great God, what have I done? I realize it now; I had better have died," and then the strength of the strong man gave way, and he wept like a child. "It is no excuse," he said, "to plead that I was young, foolish, and easily led. Oh, Leone, my only love, what was I doing when I gave you up—when I left you?"
The violence of his grief somewhat restrained hers; she was half frightened at it.
"We are making matters worse," she said. "Lance, we must not forget that you are married now in earnest."
"Will you ever forgive me?" he asked. "I have no excuse to offer. I own that my sin was the most disloyal and the most traitorous a man could commit, but forgive me, Leone. I have repented of it in sackcloth and ashes. Say you forgive me."
The beautiful, colorless face did not soften at the words.
"I cannot," she said; "I cannot forgive that treachery, Lance; it has wounded me even unto death. How can I forgive it?"