"Dear God, I love you." And again he kissed her, long and full. But then he drew back, and a dark shadow clouded his features, as if recalling some barrier which stood between them still. "What is it?" she asked, terrified. "Forgive me," he said. "I know you're glad to see me. . .and I have no right to ask." Their eyes met, and there was such astonished pain in her gaze..... "Do you still love him?" he whispered. "Do I still love who?" "The Englishman." "Michael! Whoever said that I did?" ".....but your letter, the day I left to join our troops. The one you put in my pack, explaining---" "Michael, look at me." He did, as bewildered as she. "I have never loved anyone but you. I never could. And I wrote you no such letter, then or otherwise. The only Englishman I know is my half-brother, and if in the whole of my lifetime I can learn not to hate him, I will deem it a blessing from Heaven." He fell back further still, as if it was she who had returned from the dead. The question of who, then, had written the letter, hardly occurred to him. Only one thing mattered. Against all hope. . .she loved him too. A tortured groan escaped him, and his face so convulsed with emotion that he could only hide it in shame against the coverlet. But slowly the paroxysm passed, and he felt loving fingers caressing his hair, and whispering words of comfort. "Michael," she said, as he drew himself up, exhausted. "It must have been my mother who gave you the letter, part of a long, bitter plot against Lord Purceville. She needed my help, and wanted you out of the way. Please forgive her. She harbored such hatred against him, that it made her blind to all else..... But that is in the past." She tried to smile, as he nodded his understanding. "You know," she said. "I have a few questions for you, too." He put a finger to her lips. "Soon, but not now. Let us have what remains of this night, at least, free from sorrow and danger. Let us have each other." At that moment there came a light knocking at the door, and Anne Scott entered the room. Her face was so softened, and beaming with such reborn faith that Mary hardly recognized it. Her unbound hair formed a loop of pale gold upon the shoulder of the nightdress, and she looked years younger than either could remember seeing her. "Is everything all right?" she asked, as if this were not her home, but theirs. "If my son will give a doting mother one last embrace, I will leave the two of you in peace. I fancy I'll sleep in Mary's room tonight, and give up my chambers to you." "Truly, Anne? Would it be all right?" "Listen to me, Mary. God married the two of you long ago. And in this moment I'm so happy, so grateful....." She faltered, and her eyes glistened. "My son is given back to me, whom I thought to be dead. Do you think I can't share him, this one night, with the woman he loves, and the girl I raised up from a child? Please, Michael, before I make a fool of myself. Kiss me, then send me off to bed."