The count shook his head, and all the fire died out of his eyes.
“Pierce Harley,” he said, “if you could prove that, no living man would be more glad than I to spend the rest of my life in the torments of hell on earth, that I might see her once more, to ask her forgiveness one moment. But it is useless. Traitor and false friend, who bit the hand that fed you, it is vain to defend her from what I know.”
“Let it pass then,” said Butler—or Harley as he must now be called—gloomily. “Your words are true as regards me. You can not believe what I say about her, of course. Let it pass.”
“Tell me then,” said the count, doubtfully, “why you came here.”
“To die,” was the laconic reply.
De Cavannes laughed scornfully.
“Have you realized that? Why did you not come before? You knew I was not dead, though you once thought I was. The day of Saratoga told you that I was no ghost, if you half suspected before. Did you fear to meet me, that you waited till my rangers drove you from your hut, and chased you here?”
“I did,” said Harley, with the same sullen manner.
“I wish you had come alone,” said the count, in his grand manner. “It would have saved me the trouble of pitying you, for I do not care to kill a man that fears death.”
Again Harley laughed sardonically.