“Ah, but there is,” he cried. “A deal more yet.” And he left his place by the spinet to come and stand immediately before her, barring her passage to the door. “Not only to say farewell was it that I desired to speak with you alone here.” His voice softened amazingly. “I want your pardon ere I go. I want you to say that you forgive me the vile thing I would have done, Hortensia.” Contrition quivered in his lowered voice. He bent a knee to her, and held out his hand. “I will not rise until you speak my pardon, child.” “Why, if that be all, I pardon you very readily,” she answered, still betraying no emotion. He frowned. “Too readily!” he cried. “Too readily for sincerity. I will not take it so.” “Indeed, my lord, for a penitent, you are very difficult to please. I pardon you with all my heart.” “You are sincere?” he cried, and sought to take her hands; but she whipped them away and behind her. “You bear me no ill-will?” She considered him now with a calm, critical gaze, before which he was forced to lower his bold eyes. “Why should I bear you an ill-will?” she asked him. “For the thing I did--the thing I sought to do.” “I wonder do you know all that you did?” she asked him, musingly. “Shall I tell you, my lord? You cured me of a folly. I had been blind, and you made me see. I had foolishly thought to escape one evil, and you made me realize that I was rushing into a worse. You saved me from myself. You may have made me suffer then; but it was a healing hurt you dealt me. And should I bear you an ill-will for that?” He had risen from his knee. He stood apart, pondering her from under bent brows with eyes that were full of angry fire. “I do not think,” she ended, “that there needs more between us. I have understood you, sir, since that day at Maidstone--I think we were strangers until then; and perhaps now you may begin to understand me. Fare you well, my lord.” She made shift to go, but he barred her passage now in earnest, his hands clenched beside him in witness of the violence he did himself to keep them there. “Not yet,” he said, in a deep, concentrated voice. “Not yet. I did you a wrong, I know. And what you say--cruel as it is--is no more than I deserve. But I desire to make amends. I love you, Hortensia, and desire to make amends.” She smiled wistfully. “'Tis overlate to talk of that.” “Why?” he demanded fiercely, and caught her arms, holding her there before him. “Why is it overlate?” “Suffer me to go,” she commanded, rather than begged, and made to free herself of his grasp. “I want you to be my wife, Hortensia--my wedded wife.” She looked at him, and laughed; a cold laugh, disdainful, yet not bitter. “You wanted that before, my lord; yet you neglected the opportunity my folly gave you. I thank you--you, after God--for that same neglect.” “Ah, do not say that!” he begged, a very suppliant again. “Do not say that! Child, I love you. Do you understand?”