With tortured eyes he glanced at Barclay.
This man whom he had hated so bitterly for sixteen years and more was his best friend, not his enemy. For Barclay had shot the savage chief who had murdered his father and outraged his mother.
Like a whisper through the chaos surrounding him, Le Breton heard Barclay talking, telling him Pansy had found the letter. On account of its contents the French commander was not going to push the case against him. He would be given his life and freedom, but an indemnity would have to be paid, and the price would leave him only a shadow of his wealth.
Le Breton knew that again Pansy had saved his worthless life. For worthless it seemed, judging from his new standpoint.
"I owe you thanks, not hatred," he said to Barclay, his voice hoarse with suffering.
"And I owe you thanks too," the governor replied. "My daughter tells me you treated her with every kindness and consideration."
It seemed to Le Breton that he had been anything but kind and considerate; that no woman could forgive such dealings as his had been with her.
He had taken a girl used to a free and active life and had shut her up in a scented, sensual prison, trying to make her fall a victim to himself and her own senses; until she had grown morbid and hysterical, seeking death in preference to himself and the sort of life he had forced her to lead.
"I don't know that I should call myself exactly kind or considerate to your daughter," he remarked. "Not after reading this letter. Or to you either," he finished.
"I wouldn't worry too much about the past, if I were you," Barclay replied. "You've plenty of time ahead of you to 'make good' in."