Lepage raised moist eyes to the other and said: “But you will take back the money I got for that?”
There was a pause, then Hume replied: “Yes, upon such terms, times, and conditions as I shall hereafter fix. You have no child, Lepage?” he gently added.
“We have no child; it died with my fame.”
Hume looked steadily into the eyes of the man who had wronged him. “Remember, Lepage, you begin the world again. I am going now. By the memory of old days, good-bye.” He held out his hand. Lepage took it, rose tremblingly to his feet, and said, “You are a good man, Hume. Good-bye.”
The sub-factor turned at the door. “If it will please you, tell your wife that I saved you. Some one will tell her; perhaps I would rather—at least it would be more natural, if you did it.”
He passed out into the sunshine that streamed into the room and fell across the figure of Lepage, who murmured dreamily: “And begin the world again.”
Time passed. A shadow fell across the sunlight that streamed upon Lepage. He looked up. There was a startled cry of joy, an answering exclamation of love, and Rose was clasped in her husband’s arms.
A few moments afterwards the sweet-faced woman said: “Who was that man who rode away to the north as I came up, Clive? He reminded me of some one.”
“That was the leader of the White Guard, the man who saved me, Rose.” He paused a moment and then solemnly said: “It was Jaspar Hume.”
The wife came to her feet with a spring. “He saved you—Jaspar Hume! Oh, Clive!”