She turned her head abruptly. "Do you hear some one talking? I thought I heard it as I came up the path—like some one muttering to himself."
He listened, but there was no sound.
"I must have imagined it," she said. There was a moment's pause, and presently she went on:
"You have been thinking hard things of me. It is natural that you should. And yet I—whatever you think—whatever you do—that day in the cave, I was not—was not—"
"You were nothing you should not have been," he replied rapidly. Her voice had sent a tremor over him—he felt it with a new wave of the morning's contempt. "I understand. There is nothing for you to justify, nothing to regret."
She shook her head. "We have left undone those things which we ought to have done," she quoted in a low voice, "and have done those things which we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us. We all recite that every Sunday. I have something now to confess to you. Won't you stand there in the light? I—I want to see your face."
He stepped slowly into a bar of moonlight.
"Why," she said, "you have hurt your hand!" She made a quick step toward him, her eyes on the stained bandage.
"It is nothing," he said hastily. "I struck it a little while ago. What—"
He turned, suddenly alert. A sharp whistle had sounded below them, and bright points here and there pricked the gloom. "They have turned on the tree-lights," he said. There was a sound of voices on the path. Some one ran across the foot-bridge.