She kept her head bowed like that and did not answer. It was his happiest moment. One might say he had lived for this. Her tears fell upon his hand, a kind of baptism for his heart. He spoke again.
"We must bear this," he panted. "It is—less cruel—than it seems. You don't know how much it is for the best."
She lifted her wet face. "You mustn't talk," she faltered.
"What difference—" he did not finish the sentence. His words were too few to waste. He paused and made another effort.
"If this had not happened I would have been—counted—among the unfaithful," he said. "I know now. I would have abandoned—my post. And gladly—without regret—for you."
"Ah!" Hilda cried with a vivid note of pain, "I am sorry! I am sorry!"
She gazed with a face of real tragedy at the form of her captive, delivered to her in the bonds of death. A fresh pang visited her with the thought that in the mystery of the ordering of things she might have had to do with the forging of those shackles.
"My God is a jealous God," Arnold said. "He has delivered me—into His own hands—for the honour of His name. I acknowledge—I am content."
"No, indeed no! It was a wicked, horrible chance! Don't charge your God with it."
His smile was very sweet, but it paid the least possible attention. "You did love me," he said. He spoke as if he were already dead.