Bayard sat gazing into the fire, its glow deepening the color of his bronze cheek and bringing into high relief a body so strong and well knit that it was difficult to believe that scarcely a year had passed since he dragged himself, starving and half dead, from the depths of an African jungle.
So far he had taken no part in the discussion. Mme. Constantin, who knew his every mood, had seen his face grow grave, his lips straighten, and a certain subdued impatience express itself in the opening and shutting of his hands, but no word of comment had followed.
“Come, we are waiting, Bayard,” she said at last, with a smile. “What do you think of Greenough’s theory?”
The traveller pushed his cup from him, shook the ashes from his cigar, and answered slowly:—
“That there is something stronger than vengeance, Louise—something higher.”
“You mean mercy?”
“Something infinitely more powerful—the Primeval.”
The Baron twisted his short neck and faced the speaker. Greenough rose to his feet, relighted his cigar at the silver lamp, and said with some impatience:—
“I don’t understand your meaning, Bayard; make it clear, will you?”
“You don’t understand, Greenough, because you have not suffered—not as some men I know, not as one man I have in mind.”