“You’re welcome,” the woman replied, with a slight toss of the head, and turned and left.
“You love La Violette,” the young woman repeated, again fixing her gaze upon Ross’s face.
“Yes, I love her, Amy,” he answered deliberately. “But I didn’t fully realize the fact until this hour. She was very kind to me during my captivity. She loved me—and I knew it. But I thought of you; and blinded myself to her charms. I was true to you through it all—in deed and in thought. As soon as I escaped, I returned to your home, intending—desiring to make you my wife. You were gone. But still I thought you true. I had no idea that you would marry George Hilliard, of your own choice. I searched for you—longed for you. I loved you still—I believed in your love for me. Yesterday I found you. I said to myself: ‘She has been forced into this marriage—she isn’t to blame. But she is lost to me forever; I have no right to love her now.’ Then La Violette’s face arose before me. And I knew that I loved her—that my love for you was a thing of the past. Last night was the first time that I acknowledged to myself that I loved La Violette. But I argued with myself that you hadn’t been at fault, and that it would be cruel—heartless for me to think of marrying La Violette, should I ever find her. In the silent watches of the night—alone with my God—I resolved to give up all quest for her, to remain faithful to my plighted troth. But this morning——”
He broke off abruptly and looked her full in the eyes.
“Go on,” she whispered, with pale lips.
“But this morning you have told me your story; and——”
Again he stopped.
“Well?” she breathed faintly.
“I—am—free!”
Spasmodically hugging her baby to her breast, she sank back upon the bed and turned her face from him. He saw that she was pale and trembling; and he sincerely pitied her. Bending over her, he whispered gently: