"What else?" he murmured, pale with conflicting emotions.
"What else! I think decency demanded that this day, at least, should be sacred to his memory. Oh, what brutes men are!" And she burst into tears.
His patient breast revolted at last. "You said he was the brute!" he retorted, outraged.
"Is that your chivalry to the dead? Oh, my poor Harold, my poor Harold!"
For once her tears could not extinguish the flame of his anger. "But you told me he beat you," he cried.
"And if he did, I dare say I deserved it. Oh, my darling, my darling!" She laid her face on the stone and sobbed.
John Lefolle stood by in silent torture. As he helplessly watched her white throat swell and fall with the sobs, he was suddenly struck by the absence of the black velvet band—the truer mourning she had worn in the lifetime of the so lamented. A faint scar, only perceptible to his conscious eye, added to his painful bewilderment.
At last she rose and walked unsteadily forward. He followed her in mute misery. In a moment or two they found themselves on the outskirts of the deserted heath. How beautiful stretched the gorsy rolling country! The sun was setting in great burning furrows of gold and green—a panorama to take one's breath away. The beauty and peace of Nature passed into the poet's soul.
"Forgive me, dearest," he begged, taking her hand.
She drew it away sharply. "I cannot forgive you. You have shown yourself in your true colours."