“See,” she said to Caracal. “Glory to those who are struck down by the light like St. Paul. There is joy in heaven for the repenting sinner!”
“Will you ever pardon me?” stammered Caracal.
“Perhaps; tears wash away many things,” added Ethel, remembering how Phil had already pardoned Caracal because he had seen him weeping.
“That is a man worth loving, a rare thing,” Ethel thought as she looked at Phil. Helia now was sitting up; the wound no longer bled.
“How happy I am!” said Helia.
She wept with joy. Phil was at her knees as in the old days. “Listen,” she said, “it is our tune of the old times, Phil! I seem still to be there!”
Phil kissed her hands to hide his tears.
“Phil,” said Helia, with a timid look at Ethel, and in a tone so low that it could come only from the heart, “tell me, Phil, am I really fit to be your wife?”
The door opened slowly, a bright light burst into the hall. It was the voivodes coming for information. If a misfortune had happened to one of the maidens, perhaps to their duchess, when they were on the spot, sword in hand to form a sheltering arch above her—what a shame it would be for them! If the duchess was dying, they would pray for her on their knees. They approached in silence. The duke had drawn near Ethel.
“I love you!” he said, speaking low. “See what I have done for you! I swore—but I thought it was you. There is still time. My people await their duchess. Shall it be you, Miss Rowrer?”