It was a long time before Burke came to her. When he did, it was to find her in a chair by the window with her head pillowed on the table, sunk in sleep. But she awoke at his coming, looking at him swiftly with a question in her eyes which his as swiftly answered. He came and knelt beside her, and gathered her into his arms.
She clung to him closely for a while in silence, finding peace and great comfort in his hold. Then at length, haltingly she spoke.
"Burke,—you—forgave him?"
"Yes," he said.
She lifted her face and kissed his neck. "Burke, you understand—I—couldn't forsake him—then?"
"I understand," he said, drawing her nearer. "You couldn't forsake anyone in trouble."
"Oh, not just that," she said. "I loved him so. I couldn't help it. I—had to love him."
He was silent for a few seconds, and the wonder stirred within her if perhaps even now he could misunderstand her. And then he spoke, his voice very low, curiously uneven. "I know. I loved him, too. That was—the hell of it—for me."
"Oh, Burke—darling!" she said.
He drew a hard breath, controlling himself with an effort. "I'd have cut off my right hand to save him, but it was no good. It came to me afterwards—that you were the one who might have done it. But it was too late then. Besides—besides—" he spoke as if something within him battled fiercely for utterance—"I couldn't have endured it—standing by. Not you—not you!"