“Gil.”
“Why have you come?”
“Because you were in trouble, Gil, and I wished to say a word or two of comfort, and to ask you of Abel Churr.”
“I know what you would say,” he said, softly. “Am I guilty? Is’t not so?”
“Yes.”
He laughed gently as he strained his eyes to try and make out the outlines of her sweet face.
“Mace,” he said, “it is like old times to be here again, and there is more light and hope in my heart than there has been for weeks. Let me answer you with another question. If I were guilty, Mace, should I be here?”
“No,” she said softly, as her hand stole down, white and soft, amongst the roses, to be seized and held to his breast. “But tell me, Gil, with your own lips, that you are innocent; that this charge is not true, and I will believe you.”
“Mace, child, so help me—”
“Stop,” she whispered, hastily; “the man who loves me needs no oaths. Tell me on your word, Gil, as a gentleman, that you are guiltless, and I will believe.”