“Ah, but I repented on the instant!  I repented before night came.  In the twilight I got upon my knees and prayed that all my plan might go wrong—­if I could call it plan.  ‘Now,’ I said, as the hour approached, ’they are before the priest; they stand there—­she in white, perhaps; he tall and grave.  Their hands are clasped each in that of the other.  They are saying those tremendous words which may perhaps mean so much.’  Thus I ran on to myself.  I say I followed you through the hour of that ceremony.  I swore with her vows, I pledged with her pledge, promised with her promise.  Yes, yes—­yes, though I prayed that, after all, I might lose, that I might pay back; that I might some time have opportunity to atone for my own wickedness!  Ah!  I was only a woman.  The strongest of women are weak sometimes.

“Well, then, my friend, I have paid.  I thank God that I failed then to make another wretched as myself.  It was only I who again was wretched.  Ah! is there no little pity in your heart for me, after all?—­who succeeded only to fail so miserably?”

But again I could only turn away to ponder.

“See,” she went on; “for myself, this is irremediable, but it is not so for you, nor for her.  It is not too ill to be made right again.  There in Montreal, I thought that I had failed in my plan, that you indeed were married.  You held yourself well in hand; like a man, Monsieur.  But as to that, you were married, for your love for her remained; your pledge held.  And did not I, repenting, marry you to her—­did not I, on my knees, marry you to her that night?  Oh, do not blame me too much!”

“She should not have doubted,” said I.  “I shall not go back and ask her again.  The weakest of men are strong sometimes!”

“Ah, now you are but a man!  Being such, you can not understand how terribly much the faith of man means for a woman.  It was her need for you that spoke, not her doubt of you.  Forgive her.  She was not to blame.  Blame me!  Do what you like to punish me!  Now, I shall make amends.  Tell me what I best may do.  Shall I go to her, shall I tell her?”

“Not as my messenger.  Not for me.”

“No?  Well, then, for myself?  That is my right.  I shall tell her how priestly faithful a man you were.”

I walked to her, took her arms in my hands and raised her to my level, looking into her eyes.

“Madam,” I said, “God knows, I am no priest.  I deserve no credit.  It was chance that cast Elisabeth and me together before ever I saw you.  I told you one fire was lit in my heart and had left room for no other.  I meet youth and life with all that there is in youth and life.  I am no priest, and ask you not to confess with me.  We both should confess to our own souls.”

“It is as I said,” she went on; “you were married!”

“Well, then, call it so—­married after my fashion of marriage; the fashion of which I told you, of a cabin and a bed of husks.  As to what you have said, I forget it, I have not heard it.  Your sort could have no heart beat for one like me.  ’Tis men like myself are slaves to women such as you.  You could never have cared for me, and never did.  What you loved, Madam, was only what you had lost, was only what you saw in this country—­was only what this country means!  Your past life, of course, I do not know.”