"No; I did not know then. I thought that you might be my friend; that I should keep up this disguise until the end," was faltered piteously. "Impossible!" cried Humphrey, sternly. "Let me be plain with you. Let me tell you that I have sat here alone thinking, reading your character, pitying you for all that is past." "Pity!" came in a deep, low voice. "Yes," he said, gently, "pity. Let me try, too, and be grateful. For you spared my life at first; you saved it afterwards." "Go on. You torture me." "I must torture you, for I have words to speak that must be uttered." He paused for a few moments; and then went on, speaking now quickly and agitatedly, as if the words he uttered gave him pain at the same time that they inflicted it upon another. "When I was chosen to command this expedition, against one who had made the name of Commodore Junk a terror all round the gulf and amid the isles, I knew not what my fate might be. There were disease and death to combat, and I might never return." He paused again. Then more hurriedly-- "There was one to whom--" "Stop!" came in a quick, angry voice. "I know what you would say; but you do not love another. It is not true." Humphrey Armstrong paused again, and then in a low, husky voice-- "I bade farewell to one whom I hoped on my return to make my wife. It pains me to say these words, but you force them from me." "Have I not degraded myself enough? Have I not suffered till I am nearly mad that you tell me this?" came in piteous tones. "Was I to blame!" "You? No. It was our fate. What a triumph was mine, to find that I, the master who had lived so long with my secret known but to poor Bart, was now beaten, humbled--to find that day by day I was less powerful of will--that my men were beginning to lose confidence in me, and were ready to listen to the plots and plans of one whom I had spared, for him to become a more deadly enemy day by day. Humphrey Armstrong, have you no return to offer me for all I have suffered--all I have lost? Tell me this is false. You do not--you cannot--love this woman." He was silent. "Is she so beautiful? Is she so true? Will she give you wealth and power? Would she lay down her life for you? Would she degrade herself for you as I have done, and kneel before you, saying, `Have pity on me-- I love you'?" "Hush, woman!" cried Humphrey, hoarsely; "and for pity's sake--the pity of which you speak--let us part and meet no more. I cannot, I will not listen to your words. Give me my liberty, and let me go." "To denounce me and mine?" "Am I such a coward, such a wretch, that I should do this?" he cried, passionately.