“What does it matter? There is blood on my hands. Let them do with me as they please.”
A new light flashed in her eyes. She seemed to feel the struggle that was coming, the fight for the soul of this strong man. Either he would dash himself to ruin, or she would save him as he had saved her.
“Is there no other voice but mine?”
“None.”
“Perhaps God is in my voice, speaking to you, Martin Valliant.”
He looked at her strangely.
“Those men died by my hand.”
“Good—very good—I grant it. There’s death, lying at our feet. Let us look at it boldly, without shrinking, without shame. What were those men? One was an evil beast, you say, and I know it to be true. He was one of those who slew my father; I would charge him, too, with my brother’s death, and by your hand I am avenged. There were three, and you were alone. There was God’s good wrath in your heart. And I call you proudly Martin Valliant. Yes, the song of the sword is yours.”
The blood rose to his face.
“Is my sin the less?”