"It would be kinder than to let him live not knowing, always wondering and hoping. It's cowardly not to tell him."
"Tell him—that, because of me, his wife, his wife, whom he adored, is dead?"
"Not because of you—in spite of you."
Rodrigo answered her, calmer, now reasoning. "You don't realize how he loved her, set her up as a saint upon an altar. I could not tell him the truth. It would blacken her forever before the whole world. I think he would prefer suffering any torture rather than that."
"That is a compromise, Rodrigo, and, therefore, wrong."
He said excitedly: "Call it what you please—I can't tell him!"
"Not even if I promise to help you with all the love I am capable of? Don't you see, Rodrigo?—I feel guilty with you. If I had not been so blind before, this might not have happened." She held out her hands, pleading with him, "Oh, Rodrigo, I love you. I did not realize how much until now. I can forgive everything in you—but cowardice. I will stand by you—but please, please tell John and ask him to forgive you. You can't see him through with that guilt always before you. It's impossible."
But he reiterated stubbornly. "No, I cannot tell him. I cannot kill him too. I would rather kill myself."
She asked quietly, "Not even if it means my love for you? Will you kill that too?"
He replied slowly, "There's nothing—could make me tell him." His voice was unsteady, hie eyes blinded with tears as he turned away from her, her whole body drooping.