With gasps of horror the others rushed in. Haganè caught Pierre to his side, and fought off the frenzied Onda. "Back, all of you, stand off, I say!" he thundered. "The man gives me life. Let him strike. Yes, yes," he cried to Pierre, all the hauteur and the terrible bronze composure melted in this new fierce joy; "tear my eyes from their sockets, my tongue from its base,—only repeat that she is pure! How could I know? She let me think it,—your boasts, the broken hairpin! Did she not give you the pledge of the hairpin?"
"I took it myself," said Pierre, "and would not give it back, though she pleaded. How could I guess the gross sentiment that is attached to the silly business by such minds as yours? She was pure, I say; give me her body and let me go!"
Haganè followed him to the kuruma. He stretched out both hands, now as one entreating mercy. "Poor boy, bound with me on the wheel of fate, listen just a little, if you can command your strength. She shielded you. Then, with her life, she rebought the paper. When you had offered to give it back, if I would consent to the restitution of her wifehood, I asked her if she was worthy to return, and in her conscious innocence, she gave the answer, 'No.' She thought only of the unworthiness of weakness—she whose soul, diluted into eternity, might stock a Christian heaven. In her self-death, she deliberately let me believe her evil, that her atonement might have this added bitterness. Also she may have feared that, being undeceived, I might falter in my promise not to restrain her from expiation. She knew of my love, and we have pledged ourselves to reunion and joint service after death. You cannot understand these things, Monsieur."
"No!" said Pierre, in bewilderment, putting his hand to his forehead, "I cannot understand, of course; she was always saying that. I cannot understand, but something whispers—"
"Monsieur," cried Haganè, "I am an older, graver man. I have suffered as I think you cannot suffer. Give me back the boon of her body!"
Pierre blinked and wavered in the path. These sudden shifting currents of purpose dazed him. The strain was tightening again, and he felt the premonitory breath of fever. He grasped outward into the air. He looked at Yuki, as if for the first time, and moved dumb lips.
"You believed this of your wife, yet forgave—helped—loved her—You look forward to having her as your wife in a coming re-birth?" asked Todd, wondering.
"Had it been true, it was but sin of the flesh. By death and expiation, she would have cleansed it. The soul would have risen, free."
"Mon Dieu, what people!" gasped Ronsard. "There stands the man Onda, scowling at us all,—and not even resenting, from Haganè, his only daughter's death."
"Onda will sacrifice to the Gods in gratitude when he knows the whole," said Haganè.