He stirred. "Don't talk like that," he muttered.
After a little time he sat up and turned his face to her. The dim light of-the young moon showed it swollen and discoloured, a hideous and comic mask of the tragedy which consumed him.
"That's the sort of man I am," Potch said, his voice harsh and unsteady. "I didn't know ... I didn't know I was like that. It came over me all of a sudden, when I saw you and—him. I didn't know any more until Michael was talking to me. I wouldn't've done it if I'd known, Sophie.... But I didn't know.... I just saw him—and you, and I had to put out the sight of it ... I had to get it out of my eyes... what I saw.... That's all I know. Michael says I didn't kill him ... but I meant to ... that's what I started to do."
Sophie's face withered under her distress.
"Don't say that, Potch," she begged.
"But I do," he said. "I must.... I can't make out ... how it was ... I felt like that. I thought I'd see things like you saw them always, stand by you. Now I don't know.... I'm not to be trusted——"
"I'd trust you always, and in anything, Potch," Sophie said.
"You can't say that—now."
"It's now ... I want to say it more than ever," she continued. "I can't explain ... what I did ... any more than you can what you did, Potch. But I'm to blame for what you did ... and yet ... I can't see that I'm altogether to blame. I didn't want what happened—to happen ... any more than you."
She wanted to explain to Potch—to herself also. But she could not see clearly, or understand how the threads of her intentions and deeds had become so crossed and tangled. It was not easy to explain.