“I didn’t mean that, but you are not the same as then—what you have done to-night—how you carried me through the streets and stood up in that boat—I can never forget it. Yes,” with a sigh, “you are much changed.”
A thrill of exultation possessed me at this declaration that I had appeared in her eyes as at least a mild type of a hero—and then it was gone again.
“Pardon me; I am not changed so much as you may imagine; it was the same man then, only no opportunity arose to put him to the test. When once you dared me to get you some flowers growing on the face of a precipice, and I firmly declined, it was not cowardice that influenced me, but a determination not to risk my life for a pretty woman’s mere whim, even if she did happen to be my wife.”
There was a low cry, almost a sob.
“I have never forgiven myself for such wickedness,” she murmured, but it was music to me, that late confession.
“Well, I have,” I said, nonchalantly, as if all those things in the past had very little interest for me any longer.
She had started up somewhat eagerly in her chair, but immediately sank back.
“It is kind of you to forgive, even if you cannot forget,” she said.
I was on the point of bursting out and declaring what a sinner I was, and how I yearned for absolution on her part—to throw myself on the mercy of the court, pleading guilty to the charge, when she spoke again, and what she said rather took the wind out of my sails.
“I promised to explain in a brief way how I came to be in Bolivar, and why I was kept a prisoner in the alcalde’s house. This I should have told you to-morrow or before you landed me at New Orleans; but since we have been thrown together here, and sleep is impossible, I shall relate it now, so that you may know how basely one of your boasted sex has acted toward a defenseless woman who loaded him with favors, and for whom she had only shown affection.”