She could not speak, her heart was beating in her throat, her arms dropped at her side.
"You are fond of your bed," he went on, "you rise late, and your room,—it looks like mad. Perhaps you had company. A party?—or a fracas?"
Her cheeks flamed, her eyes filled with tears, her mouth quivered, but no words came.
"Well," he continued, "you don't say much, but you look well. I suppose you had a good time while I was gone. Why have you taken off your wedding-ring? When a woman does that, she——"
Her face went very white, her eyes burned, she spoke with her deepest, slowest note.
"Stop, Prosper, you are unjust, something has made you crazy, some one has told you lies. You are insulting me, you are hurting me,—but I,—well, I am the one that loves you always. So I will tell you what has happened. Sit down there on the bed and be quiet. You have a right to know it all,—and I have the right to tell you."
Then she stood before him, with her right hand covering the white mark on the ring-finger, and told him the strange story of the Mass for the dead who had been too much loved. He listened with changing eyes, now full of doubt, now full of wonder and awe.
"You tell it well," he said, "and I have heard of such things before. But did this really happen to you? Is it true?"
"As God lives it is true," she answered. "I was afraid I had loved you too much. I was afraid you might be dead. That was why I gave my wedding-ring—for your soul. Look, I will swear it to you on the crucifix."
She went to the wall behind the bed where the crucifix was hanging. She lifted her hand to take it down.