"But you—you—you couldn't really love me!" she whispered like an incredulous child. "You sure you do?"
His arms went round her, holding her fast. He made no other answer. Saltash, the glib of tongue and ready of gibe, was for once speechless in the presence of that which has no words.
She nestled closer to him as a little furry animal that has found its home. Her incredulity was gone, but she kept her face hidden. "But why didn't you tell me before?" she said.
He bent his black head till his lips reached and rested against her hair.
"Nonette," he said, "you told me that I had made you believe in God."
"Yes?" she whispered back rather breathlessly. "Yes?"
"That's why," he said. "You got me clean through my armour there. Egad, it made me a believer too. If I'd failed you after that—well, He'd have been justified in damning me, body and soul!"
"But you couldn't!" she protested. "You couldn't fail me!"
His dark face twisted with the old wry grimace. "I've failed a good many in my time, Nonette. But—no one ever trusted me to that extent. You practically forced me—to prove myself."
A little gasp of relief came from Toby. She spoke with more assurance.
"Oh, was that it? You were just trying—to be good?"
"Just—trying!" said Saltash.