I flung out on the table the roll which I had brought with me to show that morning to Grace Sheraton—­the ragged hide, holding writings placed there by my hand and that of another.

“This,” I said, “must be shown to you all.  Colonel Sheraton, I have been very gravely at fault.  I was alone for some months in the wilderness with another woman.  I loved her very much.  I forgot your daughter at that time, because I found I loved her less.  Through force of circumstances I lived with this other woman very closely for some months.  We foresaw no immediate release.  I loved her, and she loved me—­the only time I knew what love really meant, I admit it.  We made this contract of marriage between us.  It was never enforced.  We never were married, because that contract was never signed by us both.  Here it is.  Examine it.”

It lay there before us.  I saw its words again stare up at me.  I saw again the old pictures of the great mountains; and the cloudless sky, and the cities of peace wavering on the far horizon.  I gazed once more upon that different and more happy world, when I saw, blurring before my eyes, the words—­"I, John Cowles—­I, Ellen Meriwether—­take thee—­take thee—­for better, for worse—­till death do us part." I saw her name, “E-l-l-e-n.”

“Harry,” said I, turning on him swiftly.  “Your father is old.  This is for you and me, I think.  I shall be at your service soon.”

His face paled.  But that of his father was now gray, very old and gray.

“Treachery!” he murmured.  “Treachery!  You slighted my girl.  My God, sir, she should not marry you though she died!  This—­” he put out his hand toward the hide scroll.

“No,” I said to him.  “This is mine.  The record of my fault belongs to me.  The question for you is only in regard to the punishment.

“We are four men here,” I added, presently, “and it seems to me that first of all we owe protection to the woman who needs it.  Moreover, I repeat, that though her error is not mine, it was perhaps pride or sorrow or anger with me which led her to her own fault.  It was Gordon Orme who told her that I was false to her, and added lies about me and this other woman.  It was Gordon Orme, Colonel Sheraton, I do not doubt—­sir, I found him in your yard, here, at midnight, when I last was here.  And, sir, there was a light—­a light—­” I tried to smile, though I fear my face was only distorted.  “I agreed with your daughter that it was without question a light that some servant had left by chance at a window.”

I wish never to hear again such a groan as broke from that old man’s lips.  He was sunken and broken when he put out his hand to me.  “Boy,” said he, “have mercy.  Forgive.  Can you—­could you—­”

“Can you yourself forgive this?” I answered, pointing to the scroll.  “I admit to you I love Ellen Meriwether yet, and always will.  Sir, if I married your daughter, it could only be to leave her within the hour.”