She was silent while the tears sprang to her eyes again.
“You must pardon my speaking of this,” he continued. “There was a girl who lived in Charleston—he did not write her name—I only know he loved her—do you—could you tell me?” He leaned forward, watching her face. “Do you know who she was?”
There was no concealing it any longer.
“Oh, sir,” she said, “I—he—loved—”
“He loved you! Ah, tell me no more! Then we are brother and sister in sorrow.”
And Attacoa, the mount where the light had conquered the darkness, looked down on them as fateful, as inscrutable, as mercilessly silent as the enigmatic Croatan.
He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hands, all the while looking at her intently through his fingers.
“Only one thing may I ask,” he said at length, “did Ervin—did he know you loved him—when he died?”
“Yes—he—knew—it—only—”
“Only he—”