"My darling—Leone—say you will pardon me. I will do anything to atone for it."
She laid one white hand on his arm.
"You see, Lance," she said, earnestly, "it is one of those things for which you can never atone—one that can never be undone—but one which will brand me forever. What am I? Did you stop to think of that when your new love tempted you? What am I? not your wife—not your widow. Oh God, what am I?"
He drew her to him again, but this time she resisted his warm kisses.
"Leone," he said sadly, "I deserve to be shot. I hate myself—I loathe myself. I cannot imagine how I failed in my duty and loyalty to you. I can only say that I was young and thoughtless—easily led. Heaven help me, I had no mind of my own, but I have suffered so cruelly and so have you, my darling—so have you."
"I?" she replied. "When you can count the leaves in the forest, or the sands on the seashore, you will know what I have suffered, not until then."
Her voice died away in a melancholy cadence that to him was like the last wailing breath of the summer wind in the trees.