But there was no answering light in McVeigh’s eyes. He had been fighting a hard battle with himself, and the end was not yet.
“Captain Monroe, it is many hours too late for apologies to you,” he said, gravely, “but I do apologize, and––you are at liberty.”
“Going to turn me out in a storm like this?” inquired his late prisoner, but McVeigh held out his hand.
“Not so long as you will honor my house by remaining,” and Monroe, after one searching glance, took the offered hand in silence.
McVeigh tried to speak, but turned and walked across to the window. After a moment he came back.
“I know, now, you could have cleared yourself by speaking,” he said; “yes, I know all,” as Monroe looked at him questioningly. “I know you have borne disgrace and risked 391 death for a chivalrous instinct. May I”––he hesitated as he realized he was now asking a favor of the man he had insulted––“may I ask that you remain silent to all but me, and that you pardon the injustice done you? I did not know––”
“Oh, the silence is understood,” said Monroe, “and as for the rest––we will forget it; the evidence was enough to hang a man these exciting times.”
“And you ran the risk? Captain, you may wonder that I ask your silence, but you talked with her here; you probably know that to me she is––”
Monroe raised his hand in protest.
“I don’t know anything, Colonel. I heard you were a benedict, but it may be only hearsay; I was not a witness; if I had been you would not have found me a silent one! But it is too late now, and we had better not talk about it,” he said, anxious to get away from the strained, unhappy eyes of the man he has always known as the most care-free of cadets. “With your permission I will pay my respects to your sister, whom I noticed across the hall, but in the meantime, I don’t know a thing!”