Just then the evening sun, which was slowly sinking in the west, burst from behind a cloud, and poured a stream of light in the room. She looked again. A clean-shaven face of chiselled marble, as clear-cut and as pale. Could it be he?
“I am Captain Smith—or was—”
“I did not know you without your beard.”
“The doctor had it taken off to get at the wound in my cheek.”
“I can hardly believe you are the same person. But for your eyes, I— They tell me you are the same. I had hoped—”
Mary sank into a chair.
“I beg your pardon. In my surprise, I forgot the courtesy due a lady.”
“I am not come as a lady, but as a woman. Turn away your eyes if you will; but hear me. Why do you hate me so? What have I done? You loved me once. At least you told me so; and as for myself—but I shall not trouble you with that. We plighted our faith. I broke my word, I acknowledge that. But do you deny the claims of conscience? Not if you are the man you have always seemed. Did it cost me nothing? It broke my heart, and—you-ou—know-ow-ow—it. You need not sneer! Alice knows it, and my mother, too, if you do not know—or care. Look at me, and remember the fresh-hearted young girl you knew four years ago—and told her—you would—love her—al-al-al-always!”
Mary covered her face with her hands, and the tears streamed down her cheeks, but with a supreme effort she suppressed her sobs.
The captain of the Myrmidons was silent.