"Hildegarde," he said, presently, "there is a thing I must mention this once--and then never again. It must never arise between us, in your heart or in my heart." "What is it, Potter?" "You confessed to me once--here in this room--" He hesitated, sought for words in which to clothe the thing, words that would carry no bitterness, no accusation, none of the horror the fact had brought to him. "You said you loved me, but could marry no man." "Yes, I said it," she replied. "Was it true?" "It was true--then." "Then?... It is not true now?" "It is not true now.... I was defiled." "That was the word." "God had burned away the defilement." He groped for her meaning; it was hidden from him. "What do you mean?" "It was _his_ blood in my veins--the blood of a man who could betray his country.... It defiled me. He was my father, and the fact defiled me. He was loathsome to me, but my life came from him.... How could I marry any man? Could I hand on such an inheritance to the innocent?" His heart seemed to stop. Did he hear aright? Was this the defilement and the manner of her defilement? He could have cried aloud with joy, for she was as he had thought her. Looking into her face, into her eyes, he had been unable to believe--but the fact of her confession had daunted him.... And _this_ was her confession.... A doubt came. The matter must be placed beyond all doubtings. He believed he understood, but now he must know. "Your father's death--" he said. "I knew God had seen and had taken the matter into His hands. I saw the punishment.... I knew I was free." "But Cantor?" "Cantor?" It was her turn to be puzzled. "What has he to do with it?" "With your--defilement?" She did not comprehend; thank God she did not comprehend ... she should never comprehend; never know the black, sordid thing he had believed of her.... He was on his knees before her, his head bowed on her knees. "Forgive me," he said, unsteadily. "Forgive me." "Forgive you?... For what, Potter?" "For being only human--with a man's understanding--when I should have known what no man could have known." She laughed softly. "I can forgive _that_," she said. They were warm flesh and blood again; two human beings, man and woman, with human love calling the one to the other. He held out his arms toward her and she came into them, lips pressed lips, and heart beat against heart. "I was wrong," he said, presently. "There's nothing like love." "Like our love," she said. After a long time he put her away from him gently. "We must go," he said. "There are things to be done.... I will take you to mother again, and this time you will stay." "I'll make her keep me," she said. "Your father--I will attend to what must be done." "Yes." "What moments we have had in this room!" he said, looking about him lingeringly. "Bitter and sweet," she said. "There shall be no more bitter--only sweet." "It will be the sweeter," she said, with knowledge born of experience.