“I repeat, you’re a cursed coward.”
“I’d be a coward if I did meet you,” quickly.
Something in Ichabod’s voice caught the little man’s ear and held him silent, as, for a long half-minute, the last time in their lives, the two men looked into each other’s eyes.
“You’ll perhaps explain.” Arnold’s voice was cold as death. “You have a reason?”
Ichabod walked slowly over to the window and leaned against the frame. Standing there, the spring sunshine fell full upon his face, drawing clear the furrows at the angles of his eyes and the gray threads of his hair. He paused a moment, looking out over the broad prairie shimmering indistinctly in the heat, and 221 the calm of it all took hold of him, shone in his face.
“I’ve a reason,” very measuredly, “but it’s not that I fear death, or you.” He took up his hat and smoothed it absently. “In future I shall neither seek, nor avoid you. Do what you wish––and God judge us both.” Without a glance at the other man, he turned toward the door.
Arnold moved a step, as if to prevent him going.
“I repeat, it’s my right to know why you refuse.” His feet shifted uneasily upon the floor. “Is it because of another––Eleanor?”
Ichabod paused.
“Yes,” very slowly. “It’s because of Eleanor––and another.”