A great pity for the young man filled Seymour's heart in spite of his own sorrow. "I loved her too," he said quietly. "The note was sent to me from Gwynn's Island, where they were confined. I had offered myself to her the night of the raid,—just before it, in fact,—and she accepted me. The note was mine. Where is it?"
"Oh!" said Talbot, softly, lifting his hand to his throat, "and I loved her too, and she is yours. Forgive me, Seymour, you won her honorably. I was too confident,—a fool. The note is gone into the sea. We cannot quarrel about it now."
"There can be no quarrel between us now, Talbot. She is mine no more than she is yours. She—she—" He paused, choking. "She—"
"Oh, what is it? Speak, man," cried Talbot, in sudden fear which he could not explain. Philip Wilton had drawn near and was listening eagerly.
"That ship there—the Radnor, you know—is lost, and all on board of her must have perished long since."
"Yes, yes, it's awful; but what of that? what of Katharine?"
"Don't you remember the note? Colonel Wilton and she were on the
Radnor."
The strain of the last hour had undermined the nervous strength of the young soldier. He looked at Seymour, half dazed.
"It can't be," he murmured. "Why did you do it? How could you?" The world turned black before him. He reeled as if from a blow, and would have fallen if Seymour had not caught him. Philip strained his gaze out over the dark water.
"Oh, my father, my father!" he cried. "Mr. Seymour, is there no hope, no chance?"