"Don't deny it—don't let me know you for a liar as well," Ewan said, eagerly; and then added in another tone, "I have had her own confession."
"Her confession?"
"Yes, and the witness of another."
"The witness of another!"
Dan echoed Ewan's words in a vague, half-conscious way.
Then, in a torrent of hot words that seemed to blister and sting the man who spoke them no less than the man who heard them, Ewan told all, and Dan listened like one in a stupor.
There was silence, and then Ewan spoke again in a tone of agony. "Dan, there was a time when in spite of yourself I loved you—yes, though I'm ashamed to say it, for it was against God's own leading; still I loved you, Dan. But let us part forever now, and each go his own way, and perhaps, though we can never forget the wrong that you have done us, we may yet think more kindly of you, and time may help us to forgive—"
But Dan had awakened from his stupor, and he flung aside.
"Damn your forgiveness!" he said, hotly, and then, with teeth set and lips drawn hard and eyes aflame, he turned upon Ewan and strode up to him, and they stood together face to face.
"You said just now that there was not room enough in the island for you and me," he said, in a hushed whisper. "You were right, but I shall mend your words: if you believe what you have said—by Heaven, I'll not deny it for you!—there is not room enough for both of us in the world."