There fell a silence between them—­a dreadful, interminable silence that seemed to stretch into eternities.  And through it very strangely she heard the wild beating of her own heart, like the hoofs of a galloping horse, that seemed to die away. . . .

She did not know whether she fell, or whether he lifted her, but when the blinding mist cleared away again, she was lying in the wicker-chair by the window, and he was walking up and down the room with the ceaseless motion of a prowling animal.  She sat up slowly and looked at him.  She was shivering all over, as if stricken with cold.

At her movement he came and stood before her, but he did not speak.  He seemed to be watching her.  Or was he waiting for something?

She could not tell; neither, as he stood there, could she look up at him to see.  Only, after a moment, she leaned forward.  She found and held his hand.

“Burke!” she said.

His fingers closed as if they would crush her own.  He did not utter a word.

She waited for a space, gathering her strength.  Then, speaking almost under her breath, she went on.  “I have—­something to say to you.  Please will you listen—­till I have finished?”

“Go on!” he said.

Her head was bent.  She went on tremulously.  “You are quite right—­when you say—­that you don’t know me—­that I have given you no reason—­no good reason—­to believe in me.  I have taken—­a great deal from you.  And I have given—­nothing in return.  I see that now.  That is why you distrust me.  I—­have only myself to thank.”

She paused a moment, but he waited in absolute silence, neither helping nor hindering.

With a painful effort she continued.  “People make mistaken—­sometimes—­without knowing it.  It comes to them afterwards—­perhaps too late.  But—­it isn’t too late with me, Burke.  I am your partner—­your wife.  And—­I never meant to—­defraud you.  All I have—­is yours.  I—­am yours.”

She stopped.  Her head was bowed against his hand.  That dreadful sobbing threatened to overwhelm her again, but she fought it down.  She waited quivering for his answer.

But for many seconds Burke neither moved nor spoke.  The grasp of his hand was vicelike in its rigidity.  She had no key whatever to what was passing in his mind.

Not till she had mastered herself and was sitting in absolute stillness, did he stir.  Then, very quietly, with a decision that brooked no resistance, he took her by the chin with his free hand and turned her face up to his own.  He looked deep into her eyes.  His own were no longer ablaze, but a fitful light came and went in them like the flare of a torch in the desert wind.

“So,” he said, and his voice was curiously unsteady also; it vibrated as if he were not wholly sure of himself, “you have made your choice—­and counted the cost?”

“Yes,” she said.

He looked with greater intentness into her eyes, searching without mercy, as if he would force his way to her very soul.  “And for whose sake this—­sacrifice?” he said.