"What will satisfy you?" she asked at length, evidently convinced from his manner that something was more seriously amiss than she had thought. "Do you not know that where I give my love I give my whole trust and confidence. More than that, I shall never take it away, even if all the world told me--even if I had some reason to believe--that you were not worthy of my trust. Oh, what does the world know of you? I understand you much better. Can't you see that a woman loves a man for what he is, and not for what he does?" "What he does proceeds from what he is, Cynthia, I am afraid," said Hubert sadly. "Not always. People are often betrayed into doing things that do not show their real nature at all," said the girl eagerly. "A man gives way to a sudden temptation--he strikes a blow--and the world calls him a ruffian and a murderer; or he takes what belongs to another because he is starving, and the world calls him a common thief. We cannot judge." He had drawn away from her, and was resting his arm on the mantelpiece, and his head upon his arm. A strange vibration passed through his frame as he listened to her words. "Do you think, then," he said at last, speaking with difficulty, and without raising his head, "that you could love a man that the world condemned, or would condemn, if they knew all--could you love a man who was an outcast, a felon, a--a murderer?" "I am sure that I could," said Cynthia fervently. For the moment she was not thinking of Hubert, however, but of another man whom she had loved, and whom she had seen condemned to death for the murder of Sydney Vane. Hubert put out his left hand and drew her close to him. Even now there was one thing that he dared not say; he did not dare ask her whether she could love a man who had allowed another to bear the punishment which he had deserved, although he had hidden his guilt from a desire to save another rather than himself. He remained for a few moments in the same posture, with his face hidden on his right arm and his left encircling Cynthia; but, after a time, he stood up, drew her closer to his breast and kissed her forehead. Then he put her away from him and crossed his arms across his chest. His face was pale and drawn, there were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his lip was bitten underneath his thick moustache. "Cynthia," he said hoarsely, "to you, at least, I will try to be an honest man. I never knew a woman as brave, as true as you are; I'll do my best, at any rate, to be not altogether unworthy of you, my darling. I would give all I have in the world if I could ask you to marry me, Cynthia; but I can't. There is an obstacle; you were right--I am not free." "I thought there was some real reason," she said quietly. "I knew you would not have spoken as you did without a reason."