They were the words that his sister had spoken. Cecil's white lips quivered as he heard them; his voice was scarcely audible as it panted through them.
“I was accused—”
“Aye! But by whom? Not by me! Never by me!”
Cecil's eyes filled with slow, blinding tears; tears sweet as a woman's in her joy, bitter as a man's in his agony. He knew that in this one heart at least no base suspicion ever had harbored; he knew that this love, at least, had cleaved to him through all shame and against all evil.
“God reward you!” he murmured. “You have never doubted?”
“Doubted? Was your honor not as my own?”
“I can die at peace then; you know me guiltless—”
“Great God! Death shall not touch you. As I stand here not a hair of your head shall be harmed—”
“Hush! Justice must take its course. One thing only—has she heard?”
“Nothing. She has left Africa. But you can be saved; you shall be saved! They do not know what they do!”