“But it is impossible!” he said. “For years I have known that letter. When I gave it you it was dated March the first.”
“Do you imply that I altered it?” asked Colin. “Not a living eye has seen that letter but mine. Give me any reason for altering it. Why should I make myself nameless and illegitimate?”
Salvatore looked that in the face. The validity of it stared at him unflinchingly.
“But I can’t believe it; there is some huge mistake,” said Salvatore. “Often have I read that letter of Rosina’s. March the first was the date of her marriage. I will swear to that; nothing shall shake my belief in that.”
Colin shook his head in answer.
“What good will that do?” he said. “You gave the letter to me, and no hand but mine has ever touched it. The letter must be produced some day, not for many years, I hope and trust, but on my father’s death it must come to light. How will your recollections stand in the face of that evidence which all can see?”
Salvatore glanced round. They were alone with the fitful wind in the pine.
“Destroy the letter, Collino,” he said. “Save your mother’s honour and your own.”
Colin gave him one glance, soft and pitiful.
“Ah, you must not suggest that to me,” he said. “You must not add force to the temptation I can only just resist. But where would my honour be if I did that? What shred of it would be left me? How could I live a lie like that?”