Sara could sense it—a tormented flame shut in a casing of steel—and she was swept by a torrent of uttermost pity and compassion.
“Garth! Garth! But there must have been some explanation! . . . You weren't in your right senses at the moment. Ah! Tell me——” She broke off, her voice failing her, her arms outflung in a passion of entreaty.
As she leaned towards him, a tremor seemed to run through his entire body—the tremor of leaping muscles straining against the leash. His hands clenched slowly, the nails biting into the bruised flesh. Then he spoke, and his voice was ringing and assured—arrogantly so. The tortured soul within him had been beaten back once more into its prison-house.
“I was quite in my right senses—that night on the Frontier—never more so, believe me”—and his lips twisted in a curious, enigmatical smile. “And as far as explanations—excuses—are concerned, the court-martial made all that were possible. I—I was not shot, you see!”
There was something outrageous in the open derision of the last words. He flung them at her—as though taunting, gibing at the impulse to compassion which had swayed her, sending her tremulously towards him with imploring, outstretched hands.
“The quality of mercy was not strained in the least,” he continued. “It fell around me like the proverbial gentle rain. I've quite a lot to be thankful for, don't you think?”—brutally.
“I—I don't know what to think!” she burst out. “That you—you should fall so low—so shamefully low.”
“A man will do a good deal to preserve a whole skin, you know,” he suggested hardily.
“Why do you speak like that?” she demanded in sharpened tones. “Do you want me to think worse of you than I do already?”
He took a step towards her and stood looking down at her with those bright, hard eyes.