But that day the gods were not on my side.  Christine and Cinders were gone to the sea to bathe, and, as they returned, they found us fighting. Le bon Cinders, he precipitate himself between us. La petite rush to stop him—­too late.  Rodolphe is startled; he plunge, and my sword pierce his arm. C’etait la un moment tres difficile.  La petite try to explain, to apologize, and me—­I lead her away. Apres cela she go back to England, and I see her not again.  But Rodolphe, he forgive me—­never.  That, monsieur—­and only that—­is the true story of that which happened at Valpre.  The little Christine left—­as she arrived—­a pure and innocent child.”

He stopped.  Mordaunt’s eyes were still studying him closely.  He met them with absolute freedom.

“I will finish,” he said, “and you shall then judge for yourself.  As you know, I had scarcely attained my ambition when I was ruined.  It was then that you first saw me.  You believed me innocent, and later, when Destiny threw me in your path, you befriended me.  I have no need to tell you what your friendship was to me.  No words can express it or my desolation now that I have lost it.  I fear that I was never worthy of your—­so great—­confidence.”  His voice shook a little, and he paused to steady it.  “It was my intention—­always—­to be worthy.  The fault lay in that I did not realize my weakness.  I ought to have left you when I knew that la petite was become your fiancee.”

For the first time Mordaunt broke his silence.  “Why not have told me the truth?”

Bertrand raised his shoulders.  “I did not feel myself at liberty to tell you.  Afterwards, I found that her eyes had been opened, and she was afraid for you to know.  It did not seem an affair of great importance, and I let it pass.  We were pals again.  She gave me her confidence, and I would sooner have died,” he spoke passionately, “than have betrayed it.  I thought that I could hide my heart from her, and that only myself would suffer.  And this I can say with truth:  by no word, no look, no action, of mine were her eyes opened.  I was always le bon frere to her, neither less nor more, until the awakening came.  I was always faithful to you, monsieur.  I never forgot that she belonged to you—­that she was—­the wife of—­my friend.”

Something seemed to rise in his throat, and he stopped sharply.  A moment later very slowly he sat down.

“You permit me?” he said.  “I am—­a little—­tired.  As you know, I began to see at last that I could not remain with you.  I resolved to go.  But the death of Cinders prevented me.  She was in trouble, and she desired me to stay.  I should have grieved her if I had refused.  I was wrong, I admit it.  I should have gone then.  I should have left her to you.  I do not defend myself.  I only beg you to believe that I did not see the danger, that if I had seen it I would not have remained for a single moment more.  Then came the day at Sandacre, the