“What was I afraid of?” he said to himself.  “There is no turpitude, no shame in a fair bet.  I was worsted in an honourable contest.  What crazy power mocked me into the belief that all this that has befallen me was connected with the flaying of a bird?  Don’t we break the necks of innocent, yea, gentle fowls, not depredators like gulls, every day for our dinners?  And don’t ladies, as delicate as the unknown censor who dared to chastise me with her eyes, eat of the same, with a relish delightful to the tongues that pronounce the fine words of pity and philanthropy?  But, even admitting there was cruelty in the act, where is the link that binds it with the consequences which have brought me here?  The bet upon the maternity was not an effect of the flaying of the bird.  If it followed the prior bet, it would have followed another, in which I was gainer, equally the same.  The mad energy which weaves in my head these day-dreams, and pursues me with these diamond eyes of wrath, is a lying power, and I shall master it by the strength of my reason, which at least is God’s gift.  Come, my Maria, as my good angel, and enable me to free my mind from illusions.  I will sit and look into your eyes, as I have done so often.  Yes, I will satisfy myself that they shine still with the lustre of love, hope, and happiness; and oh, let these, and these only, enter into my dreams.”

And thus he satisfied himself, as all do, whose hope weaves the syllogisms of their wishes, and sits to see pleasure caught on the wing.  The day passed apace to usher in the evening with its messenger of peace.  Where, in that squalid place, would he seat her, whose peculiar province was the drawing-room?  How would he receive her first look of sympathy? how repay it? with what words express his emotions? with what fervour kiss those lips redolent of forgiveness? with what ecstasy look into those eyes refulgent with love?  He would control himself, and be calm.  He would rehearse, that he might not fail in the forms of an interview on which hung his destiny, almost his life.  The hour of seven arrived.  He heard the heavy foot of the jailer come tramp, tramp along the lobby.  There was a softer step behind, as if the echo of the heavier tread.  A stern voice and a softer one mingled their notes.  The door opened.

“My Mar—!  O God! these scornful eyes again.”

“Not scornful now,” replied the soft voice of a woman, as she came forward, and stood before him in the dusk.

“Were there light enough,” she continued, “I would lift my veil and show you that they are capable of a kindlier light than even that they now carry, for the offering I made to heaven has been more than answered.”

“Ah, you come to retract,” he said, “to speak the truth at last.  It is not too late to say you are the mother—­the mother of the boy.  Nor need you be ashamed:  there may be reasons; but many a woman lives to repent—­”