“No, by God! you infernal scoundrel,” shouted Derek Pruyn, “you shall not go.”

All the suffering of months shot out in the red gleam of his eyes, while the muscular tension of his neck was like that of an infuriated mastiff.  In three strides he was across the room, with clinched fist uplifted.  Bienville had barely time in which to fold his arms and stand with feet together and head erect, awaiting the blow.

“Go on,” he said, as Derek stood with hand poised above him.  “Go on.”

There was a second of breathless stillness.  Then slowly the clinched fingers began to relax and the open hand descended, softly, gently, on Bienville’s shoulder.  Between the two men there passed a look of things unspeakable, till, with bent head and drooping figure, Derek wheeled away.

“I’ll say good-by—­now.”

Bienville’s voice was husky, but he bowed with dignity to each member of the company in turn and to Marion Grimston last.  “Raoul!” The name arrested him as he was about to go.  He looked at her inquiringly.  “Raoul,” she said again, without rising from her place, “I promised that if you ever did what you’ve done to-day I would be your wife.”

“You did,” he answered, “but I’ve already given you to understand that I claim no such reward.”

“It isn’t you who would be claiming the reward; it’s I. I’ve suffered much.  I’ve earned it.”

“The very fact that you’ve suffered much would be my motive in not allowing you to suffer more.”

“Raoul, no man knows the sources of a woman’s joy and pain.  How can you tell from what to save me?”

“There’s one thing from which I must save you:  from uniting your destiny with that of a man who has no future—­from pouring the riches of your heart into a bottomless pit, where they could do no one any good.  I thank you, Mademoiselle, with all my soul.  I’ve asked you many times for your love; and of the hard things I’ve had to do to-day, the hardest is to give it back to you, now, when at last you offer it.  Don’t add to my bitterness by urging it on me.”

“But, Raoul,” she cried, raising herself up, “you don’t understand.  We regard these things differently here from the way in which you do in France.  It may be true, as you say, that in losing your honor you’ve lost all—­in French eyes; but we don’t feel like that.  We never look on any one as beyond redemption.  We should consider that a man who has been brave enough to do what you’ve done to-day has gone far to establish his moral regeneration.  We can honor him, in certain ways—­in certain ways, Raoul—­almost more than if he had never done wrong at all.  None of us would condemn him, or cast a stone at him—­should we, Lucilla?—­should we, Mr. Pruyn?”

“No, no,” Miss Lucilla sobbed.  “We’d pity him; we’d take him to our hearts.”

“She’s right, Bienville,” Derek muttered, nodding toward Marion.  “Better do just as she says.”