There was a moment’s pause, in which their eyes remained bound to each other. Then the low, full, equal voice spoke on.
“Tell me more, Muriel. Tell me how he died. I am calm. I can bear to hear it all.”
“I will tell you, my mother,” Muriel replied. “He heard that the man was a prisoner in a boat at an island wharf in the bay. Last night he sailed through the tempest, and captured him. Seven to one, they followed him to the beach, and fell upon him. He crushed them every one, received a death-wound in the fray, returned in victory, and died here at sunrise. That is all.”
The pale face flushed slowly.
“I drove him to this,” was the low reply. “Did I not? Have not I killed him?”
“No, mother,” answered Muriel, calmly. “It is not so. I had determined to disregard your wishes, but this plan was surer, and he and I chose it.”
The pale face lightened, and the flush died away in marble pallor.
“No, it was not I that killed him,” she said, slowly. “It was another, and him I renounce forever. Lemuel”—
“Hush, mother,” said Muriel. “Not a word of him. Let us pity and pardon him—but do not utter his name again. Let him pass in peace.”