“Will you forgive me, for God’s sake?”
“The papers,” I said. “What about the papers?”
“I have them here,” he said, “here!” And with his bayonet point he ripped open the lining of his coat and produced a bundle of papers in a leathern wrapper. “I never opened them. I could not read. I don’t know what is in them. I thought they might be of use some day, and that I could give them up to the rightful owner, as I am doing now.”
I took the papers like one in a dream. I rose without another word, and went down the mountain. I sought out a sequestered spot where I was sure to be uninterrupted, opened the package and read. Well, it boots nothing to anyone now to know what was in them. There were family secrets which, if revealed at the time, would have changed the current of many lives, including my own; but it could serve nothing but a selfish purpose of my own were I to reveal them now; so having read the papers, and dropped a tear over the handwriting of him who was my father, I tore the papers into bits, set them alight, and waited until every vestige was consumed.
Ryan avoided me for the next few days, but if I had any resentment against him it died out. I might still have taken advantage of the information given by the papers, but deliberately decided not to do so. As for the money and the trinkets—well, they were gone, and Ryan had suffered terribly, was still suffering, had risked his life and shed his blood at Ostalric to save mine.
We did not meet again until we entered Barcelona, the enemy having marched out. That night it chanced that both he and I were ordered for duty on the ramparts as sentries. Before our time came I went to him, and holding out my hand, said, “Ryan, I forgive you with all my heart, and forget.”
“But he won’t,” he replied with a slight tremor.
“Nonsense,” I said, “you have confessed your wrong-doing, and all is over. You shall never see him again.”