"I am free of pain," he answered. "I don't know when it may return.
Give me something to keep me going while I talk."
She gave him a few spoonfuls of a strong meat extract mixed with brandy, supporting his head on her arm while he took the nourishment.
"How young you look, Mary," he said, when she had laid down his head again on the pillow. "Sit there, just where you are. What a burthen I have been to you all these years, holding me up from the abyss. And yet your eyes and your skin are like a child's. I suppose it is prayer and quiet and honest thoughts."
"You really feel able to talk, Shawn?" she asked anxiously.
"I feel as strong as a horse at this moment. That stuff is potent. But I had better talk while I am able. There is much I want to tell you, Mary, and there may be no great time."
Her eyes looked at him in dumb protest, but she said not a word.
"To go back to the beginning, Mary. I have not told you all the truth about myself and Terence. It was not the loss of my friend that darkened my life. That would have been unnatural when I had you beside me. It was—Mary—it was I who sent Terence Comerford to his death."
"You, Shawn! You are dreaming! There was more than the love of brothers between you!"
"My mind is perfectly clear. You won't turn away from me when I tell you? My need of you is bitter."
She dropped on her knees by the bed and laid her face against his hand.
She did not want him to see her eyes while he told his story.