"’Tis true," she sobbed; "I betrayed you to my Lord Jeffreys." "You did?" "Yes. I—came even from so doing when I met you—that night in Taunton." "That night! And yet, madame, having done so, you allowed me to go on, without word of warning, into the trap which you yourself had set?" His face was in the shadow, but she trembled at the suppressed anger in his tone. "Is this true, madame?" he continued sharply. She had no answer save a sob. "And may I ask," he continued presently in the same stern tone, "may I ask your reason for—er—taking such an active interest in my affairs?" "I—I deemed you had betrayed Barbara," she answered timidly. "Your suspicion was as unjust as your revenge," he cried angrily. Then he checked himself, and presently continued coldly, "Your pardon, madame, I forgot myself. I believe,"—he drawled with a slight sneer—"in affairs of honour, ’tis not—customary to judge women by the standard usually applied to men." Cicely winced at his words, but sobbed on helplessly, making no attempt to defend herself. Captain Protheroe walked slowly to the far end of the room and having partially mastered his anger, slowly returned to her side. "Come, madame," he said sharply, "there is no need to weep more about the matter. The thing is done; there is an end on’t." "I—I did it for Barbara," she sobbed, stung by his tone to seek for some self-justification. "Ah!" His tone was startled, questioning. "Your life was to be the price of her freedom." "Her freedom!" "Yes. But, fool that I was, as well as traitor, they took my information and cheated me of the reward." She burst into a fresh passion of sobs. But now all trace of anger had left his face, he was eager, glad. "But, Lady Cicely," he cried, "this is, indeed, a different matter; I had misunderstood. You were justified, perfectly. What a villain I was to doubt you. Madame, can you ever forgive me?" Cicely stared at him in amazement. "Nay, sir, I see no difference. Your words were just." "Just! madame, they were shameful, infamous! I cannot hope to win your pardon for them. Why, Lady Cicely," he continued with boyish eagerness, "I am grateful to you for your action, most grateful. I count it the highest honour to have been privileged to serve Mistress Barbara, for," he added softly, "I would gladly die a thousand deaths to shield her from pain. I beseech you, madame, be comforted. ’Twas no betrayal, I was a most willing victim at the sacrifice." But though she smiled faintly Cicely still wept. "Ah! ’tis kind to say so," she cried, shaking her head, "But for me—for me who betrayed you! What respect, what honour have I left me?" "Ah! madame, would my tongue had been cut out ere ever I spake those words," he cried miserably. "Nay, the words were nought. But the deed! The deed remains the same. What must you think of me? Nay, what must I think of myself?" Bitterly she wept, and he looked down on her in helpless despair.