“No,” he said quietly. “You will not drown. You will live, and make yourself a girl whom I can respect.”
“Would you ever respect me—respect me, if I was to be—if I was to do what you say?” asked Lena in a low, controlled tone.
“I should respect you from my soul,” said Bayard.
“Would you—would you be willing to—would you feel ashamed to shake hands with me, Mr. Bayard,—if I was a different girl?”
“I will shake hands with you now,” returned the minister quietly, “if you will give me your word of honor that you will never, from this hour”—
“I will never, from this hour, so help me God!” said Lena solemnly.
“So help her, God!” echoed Bayard.
He lifted his hand above her head, as if in prayer and blessing; then gently extended it. The girl’s cold, purple fingers shook as he touched them. She held her bare hand up in the moonlight, as if to bathe it in whiteness.
“Mr. Bayard, sir,” she said in her ordinary voice, “it is a bargain.”
Bayard winced, in spite of himself, at the words; but he looked at Lena’s face, and when he saw its expression he felt ashamed of his own recoil.