Aymar threw away the little twig and roused himself. This was a dangerous line of thought. But he could think of nothing better with which to check it than, "I have regretted it enough since, my dear."
Avoye shivered a little. Then she put a hand on his. "But surely the Imperialists, who looked after you so well, did not think—that thing of you? They must have understood?"
"When my own men did not? No, Avoye, they did not . . . understand."
She caught her hands together and the tears brimmed over.
"Oh, why did you not make a better story—save your name somehow when you sent the letter? Why did you send it at all?"
And as he did not answer, but sat with downbent head, she went on, "But I do not mean to criticize, to scold! It sounds so cruel, when you have suffered so!"
Aymar lifted his eyes, and smiled at her out of his pain and fatigue. "No, little heart, I know you did not mean to do that." He put his hand over hers and they relapsed into momentary silence.
"Aymar," said his cousin suddenly, "to whom did you say you sent the letter?"
His hand loosed itself a little. "I did not mention any name, I think," he answered warily. "Why?"
"Because I wondered for a second whether it could have been to the Imperialists who stopped me at the Cheval Blanc—under a Colonel Richard, I think the name was—for you remember, perhaps, that that was the very night I was detained. And it would have been a horrible coincidence, for I heard those men marching out early next morning. But of course, if it was not to him——"