“I do.”
“But,” she argued, “that with which I began failed me. I was entirely certain, at the time; I could not possibly have hesitated. And then—it died.” Her eyes loomed large. “It is quite dead now, and I feel that I have betrayed myself—broken faith with myself.”
He shook his head. “You could not break faith; you are the soul of truth.”
This praise she accepted. “I don't tell lies, I hope—and I don't shirk things. But you see that I can stultify my own acts. I believed, and acted on my belief; and then I ceased to believe, and acted on that. I cannot trust myself—I ought to be ashamed to say so, and I hope I am.”
Morosine met her eyes again, and held them. “I can never believe that you would fail. I tell you that you have not failed. It is that you have been failed. You cannot give if what you give is not taken. Failed—you! Ah, no, you have succeeded, I think.”
She bent her brows as she faced resolutely forward. “I must take the consequences of what I have done. I see that.”
“Ah,” said Morosine, “that is a question of courage. Courage you have.”
“I need it,” she said in a hush, and stopped dead. Ingram stood before her, and took off his hat.
“Well, Sanchia,” he said, “here I am.”
{Illustration: “Well, Sanchia,” he said. “Here I am."}