“There is my hand,” he whispered; “place yours within it. There; does it burn?”
“No,” she whispered; “it is cool and soft.”
“Yes,” he said, quietly; “but if it were stained with Abel Churr’s blood it would burn and flush at the touch of your innocent palm. If I said there had never been blood upon it, child, I should lie; but it has been the blood of an enemy, shed in fair fight; and as often,” he added, with a laugh, “it has been my own. Mace, you have never misjudged me, darling? Tell me that you never believed me to be the assassin they would make me out.”
“Never, Gil.”
“Thank God, then, that I was suspected.”
“What?” she cried, starting.
“I say thank God that I was suspected.”
“Why?”
“Because it has swept away the clouds between us, and turned your gentle heart to me because I was in pain and trouble: that is all.”
“Is that all, Gil? Did I ever turn from thee?” she faltered.