"No," she replied.
"Then I will tell you," I said, and I told her all that had passed. How the people had stood round the little baby, and the men cursed the cruel hands that had drowned the little babe.
"Did they curse my hands?" she asked, and I saw her looking at them in wonder.
"Yes; the men said hard words, but the women were pitiful and kind; one kissed the little face, dried it, and kissed it with tears in her eyes. Was it your own child?"
There was a long pause, a long silence, a terrible few minutes, and then she answered:
"Yes, it was my child!"
Her voice was full of despair; she folded her hands and laid them on her lap.
"I knew it must come," she said. "Now, let me try to think what I must do. I meet now that which I have dreaded so long. Oh, Lance! my love, Lance! my love, Lance! You will not tell him?" she cried, turning to me with impassioned appeal. "You will not!—you could not break his heart and mine!—you could not kill me! Oh, for Heaven's sake, say you will not tell him?"
Then I found her on her knees at my feet, sobbing passionate cries—I must not tell him, it would kill him, She must go away, if I said she must; she would go from the heart and the home where she had nestled in safety so long; she would die; she would do anything, if only I would not tell him. He had loved and trusted her so—she loved him so dearly. I must not tell. If I liked, she would go to the river and throw herself in. She would give her life freely, gladly—if only I would not tell him.
So I sat holding, as it were, the passionate, aching heart in my hand.