"My dear, be patient, and listen," she urged gently. "On that long voyage it seemed to me that life, as I had once hoped to live it, came back to me; in the long watches of the night, when I could not sleep, I thought of you in your prison, and my life seemed a thing shameful and horrible. I remembered your gentleness; even in the prison garb in which I sometimes thought of you, you stood before me always as a king--strong and self-sacrificing and wonderful. Because a man had dared to speak ill of me, you had gone out, without a thought of the consequences, and struck him dead; there was no man I'd ever met who would have done half so much for me." I thought of a boy who was even then setting out to do the same thing again; I shuddered as I sat there. "At last one night the thing had become intolerable to me," she went on, in a whisper that grew sharp and eager as she remembered that time. "I made up my mind that I could no longer live the life I was living; I must get away somewhere, and hide myself; I must, if possible, begin again. It seemed to me, my dear, as though your sacrifice had been in vain; I must consecrate what was left of my life to you, and to the memory of you. We were in mid-ocean--but I made up my mind to escape." "How did you do it?" I asked. "There was a stewardess on board--a strong, stern, repressed woman, whose confidence I had gained, and who seemed to be deeply interested in me. I told her just so much of my story as was necessary; I swore to her that I could not and would not meet the man whose name I bore again. I told her that I would, if necessary, fling myself into the sea rather than endure his presence any longer. And she showed me a better and a simpler way, yet a harder way to bear." She sat for a moment or two with her elbows on her knees, leaning forward, and evidently thinking deeply; I did not dare to interrupt her. I stole a hand into hers, and she clasped my hand between her own, and so held it while she went on talking. "At her suggestion I left a note for my husband, telling him that I was tired of my life, and that I meant to end it; I implored him to be good to the child. I left the note in our cabin, and I stole out, when all the ship except those on watch above was asleep, and met my friend the stewardess. She took charge of me; and she locked me into a tiny second-class cabin that had before been empty. And for the remainder of that voyage she tended me, and brought me food, and kept me hidden." "And your husband--Lucas Savell? What of him?" I asked.