Her agitation was such—she did not try to hide it—that for a moment she could not speak. Then “If you knew all,” she said in a low voice, “you would know that I had grounds for what I did, Sir.” “That you had good grounds, I cannot believe,” I answered. “And for knowing all, I think I do. I know that you have suffered. I know that you have lost your mother and your brother. I know that you have grievances, sad grievances it may be against us.” “You don’t know all,” she repeated more firmly. “But I know enough,” I rejoined—I was not to be moved from my purpose now. “I know that I was your father’s prisoner and your guest; and that you stood aside, you did not raise a hand, not a finger to save me, Miss Wilmer. You did not speak, though a word might have availed, and I believe would have availed to preserve me! You let me go out to a cruel death, you turned your back on me—” “Oh, don’t! don’t!” she cried. “You quail at the picture,” I retorted. “I do not wonder that you do. I was your guest, I was wounded, I was in pain, alone. Has a man, when he is maimed and laid aside, no claim on a woman? No claim on her forbearance, on her pity, on her protection? For shame, Miss Wilmer!” I continued warmly, carried farther than I intended by my feelings. “Men, when their blood is hot, will plan things, and do things, God knows, that are abominable. But for a woman to consent to such, and, when it is too late, to think that by a few tears she can make up for them—” “Stop!” she cried—I suppose that I had gone too far, for she faced me now, hardily enough. “You understand nothing, sir! Nothing! So little that you will scarcely believe me when I say that if the thing were to do again—I would do it.” “I cannot believe you,” I said coldly. “It is true.” I stared at her; and she returned my look with a strange mixture of shame and defiance. “Why?” I said at last. “In heaven’s name, why, Miss Wilmer? What have I done to you? Your mother I know. But had I a hand in it? God forbid! Was I within a hundred miles of it? No. Your brother—and there again, I find that hard to forgive. Your father had spared my life, sheltered me, brought me here; could you not believe that I was grateful? Could you not believe that I would do much to serve him and something to repay him? That all that it was in my power to do for your brother, by my exertions or my influence, I would do? But you did not tell me. You did not ask me?” “No,” she said. “Why?” I asked bluntly. She did not answer. “Why?” I repeated. I was at the end of my anger. I had said what was in my mind and said it with all the severity I could wish. And I was sure that I had made her suffer. Now I wanted to understand. I sought for light upon her. There was a puzzle here and I had not the clue.