“It was his blood in my veins—the blood of a man who could betray his country.... It defiled me. He was my father, and the fact defiled me. He was loathsome to me, but my life came from him.... How could I marry any man? Could I hand on such an inheritance to the innocent?”
His heart seemed to stop. Did he hear aright? Was this the defilement and the manner of her defilement? He could have cried aloud with joy, for she was as he had thought her. Looking into her face, into her eyes, he had been unable to believe—but the fact of her confession had daunted him.... And this was her confession....
A doubt came. The matter must be placed beyond all doubtings. He believed he understood, but now he must know.
“Your father’s death—” he said.
“I knew God had seen and had taken the matter into His hands. I saw the punishment.... I knew I was free.”
“But Cantor?”
“Cantor?” It was her turn to be puzzled. “What has he to do with it?”
“With your—defilement?”
She did not comprehend; thank God she did not comprehend ... she should never comprehend; never know the black, sordid thing he had believed of her.... He was on his knees before her, his head bowed on her knees.
“Forgive me,” he said, unsteadily. “Forgive me.”