He smiled a little bitterly when he saw the effect of his words, but said clearly: “Yes. You see I was a villain.”
She shuddered a little, and then said simply: “Your face was not the face of a bad man. Are you telling me the truth?”
He nodded.
“Then you were wicked with me,” she said at last, with a great sigh, looking him straight in the eyes. “But you—you loved me?” she said with injured pride and a piteous appeal in her voice. “Ah, I know you loved me!”
“I will tell you when you know all,” he answered evenly.
“Is there more to tell?” she asked heavily, and shrinking from him now.
“Much more. Please, come here.” He went towards the open window of the room, and she followed. He pointed out to where his horse stood in the palms.
“That is my horse,” he said. He whistled to the horse, which pricked up its ears and trotted over to the window. “The name of my horse,” he said, “maybe familiar to you. He is called Firefoot.”
“Firefoot!” she answered dazedly, “that is the name of Hyland’s horse—Hyland the bushranger.”
“This is Hyland’s horse,” he said, and he patted the animal’s neck gently as it thrust its head within the window.