He suffered greatly, I saw—­was terribly excited.

“So far from your surmise being just, Claude, I enjoin upon you, as a man of honor, never to let her know the subject of this conference, in which she has had no voluntary part.  Placed as I am by my father’s will, which I never will gainsay, however bitter it may be to me; bound hand and foot; indeed, in her power by its decisions for a term of years, her knowledge of the fact that I had overheard her conversation with you in my chamber when I lay stricken, helpless, if not unconscious (an unwilling listener, I assure you, Claude, to every word you uttered), would be a cause of endless misery to me and her.  No, Evelyn has told me nothing, believe me.”

He staggered back from the mantel to his chair, sat down again helplessly, and covered his face with his hands.  The blush of shame mounted above his fingers and crimsoned the very roots of his silken hair.  He trembled visibly.

O God! how I pitied him then!  Self sank out of sight at that moment, and I thought only of his confusion.  Had I obeyed my impulse, I would have cast my arms about his neck as about a brother’s, and whispered, to that stormy nature, “Peace, be still!” But I refrained from a manifestation that might have deceived him utterly as to its source.  I only said: 

“I am very sorry, Claude, for all this; but bear it like a man.  Believe me, no one shall ever know the occasion of this rupture—­the management of which I leave entirely in your hands.  Of what I overheard I shall never speak, I promise you, even though sorely pressed for my reasons for our separation.  My own pride would prevent such a revelation, you know, putting principle aside.”  And again I extended my hand to him frankly, with the words, “Let us be friends.”

He had glanced up a moment while I was speaking, evidently relieved by my voluntary promise.  He took my hand humbly now, and reverently kissed it, bowing his head above it long and mutely.

“My poor, outraged, offended, noble Miriam!” I heard him murmur at last.  The words affected me.

“I am all these, Claude,” I said, withdrawing my hand gently but firmly, “but none the less your friend, if you will have it so.  And now let us think what will be best for you to do.  I wish to spare your feelings as much as possible, and I will say all I can with truth to exonerate you in your father’s eyes.  Go to Copenhagen, as you proposed at one time to do, and leave the rest to me.  That will be best, I think.”

“To Copenhagen!” he exclaimed.  “You issue thus coldly your edict of banishment!  Are you implacable then, Miriam?” and the cold dew stood in beads on his now pallid brow as he rose before me.  He had not fully realized his situation until now.

“‘Implacable’ is scarcely the word for this occasion, Claude.  It implies anger or hatred, it seems to me.  Now, I feel neither of these—­only the truest sympathy.”