She uttered the words in a half whisper, as if she had not the power to speak louder, and he saw the hand hanging at her side close itself.
“What is it—that ails ye?”
He waited a few seconds before he answered her.
“Look at me,” he said at last, “and see.”
She did look at him. For the space of ten seconds their eyes were fixed upon each other in a long, bitter look. Then her little bundle dropped on the ground.
“Ye've went back on me,” she said under her breath again. “Ye've went back on me!”
He had thought she might make some passionate outcry, but she did not yet. A white wrath was in her face and her chest heaved, but she spoke slowly and low, her hands fallen down by her side.
“Ye've went back on me,” she said. “An' I knew ye would.”
He felt that the odor of his utter falseness tainted the pure air about him; he had been false all round,—to himself, to his love, to his ideals,—even in a baser way here.
“Yes,” he answered her with a bitterness she did not understand, “I've gone back on you.” Then, as if to himself, “I could not even reach perfection in villainy.”