“Oughtn’t we to see--if _he_ is hurt or killed?” she murmured, timidly. Beresford answered, carelessly: “Oh, he is all right. I hear him coming behind us now.” And, sure enough, a voice called, humbly: “Beresford--Miss Fane! Will you please wait a moment?” They paused, and saw Otho Maury limping dejectedly toward them, looking very meek in the bright moonlight that streamed through interstices of the trees. Floy’s tender little heart gave a leap of joy that he was not killed, although she knew that he well deserved it. He dropped with difficulty on one knee before Floy, muttering: “I crave your pardon, Miss Fane, for my rudeness just now. I swear I meant no harm except to kiss you. But I had been drinking--and I will own it--I was mad with love for you. But I never should have frightened you so only that I had drunk too much wine and I lost my head. I’m glad Beresford threw me out of the window, for my madness deserved it, though I’m a mass of bruises, and my ankle is either sprained or broken. But that does not matter so that you forgive me. Will you?” contritely. Floy had the tenderest heart in the world, and Otho’s repentance was so frank and engaging that she hesitated. “Do you think I ought to forgive him?” she whispered to Beresford, with a ravishing little air of reliance on his judgment! He shrugged his shoulders, and replied, carelessly: “Perhaps so--since he asks it.” “Very well,” said Floy; and looking coldly at the offender, she said, proudly: “I forgive you, as you say you are sorry; but don’t you ever dare speak to me again!” She was turning away, with her head held high in scorn, but he caught at her sleeve. “One moment, please. I have another favor to ask of you and--Beresford,” the last word with a gulp, as if swallowing his pride with difficulty. They both stopped to listen, and he muttered: “Will you both keep the story of this affair a secret? It will ruin me if it becomes known. My father--he has threatened to disinherit me if I do not quit drinking. I had promised him, but I--I broke my word to-night. Then, too, the ridicule of my set--_you_ know how it could sting. Beresford, for God’s sake, be merciful, as you are strong and brave!” He drooped before them--craven, abject, appealing, a cur to despise--in the moonlight. Beresford knew that what he advanced was true; the story of to-night’s offense and its punishment would make Maury the laughing stock of all who heard it--would follow him with its blight through life. He was disposed to pity the abject suppliant, the depths of whose meanness his own noble nature could not fathom. So he answered, after a moment’s reflection: “It shall be as the young lady says, of course, though I must say you do not merit her leniency.” “I know too well that I do not, but she is an angel, and will grant my prayer,” muttered the wretched delinquent.