Her figure straightened. "Why do you hate him so?" she asked passionately. "You have hastened their trial, and would carry out the sentence before there is time for justice. And the man whom that day you ordered whipped from the Mount—after letting me think him safe! After all that his master did for me! Why was he lashed? Because of him he served or of the old Seigneur before that? I heard you ask about him—of his having gone to America? Why did you care about that?"
"You seem to have listened to a great deal!"
"You seem to have listened to a great deal."
"And why did he go to America?" she went on, unheeding. "Did you hate him, too? What for?"
"If you have nothing else to talk about—" He glanced at the door.
"And the lands!" she said. "They were his; now they are yours—"
"Unjustly, perhaps you think."
"No, no!" she cried. "I didn't mean—I didn't imply that. Of course not! Only," putting out her hands, "I try to understand, and—you have never taken me into your confidence, mon père! You have been indulgent; denied me nothing, but—I don't want to feel the way I have felt the last week, as if—" quickly she stopped. "No doubt there are reasons—although I have puzzled; and if I knew! Can't you," abruptly, "treat me as one worthy of your confidence?"