He looked at her in surprise, and stepped toward her with evident intent to embrace her.  His act was probably the result of an involuntary impulse, for he stopped before he reached the girl.

[Illustration]

Sir George had gone at Sir William’s request to arrange the guards for the return march.

Dorothy and John were standing within two yards of each other.

“Do not touch me,” cried Dorothy, “save to strike me If you will.  The evil which has come upon you is of my doing.  I betrayed you to the queen.”

I saw Mary turn quickly toward the girl when she uttered those words.

“I was insane when I did it,” continued Dorothy.  “They will take your life, John.  But when you die I also shall die.  It is a poor reparation, I know, but it is the only one I can make.”

“I do not understand you, Dorothy,” said John.  “Why should you betray me?”

“I cannot tell you,” she answered.  “All I know is that I did betray you and I hardly know how I did it.  It all seems like a dream—­like a fearful monster of the night.  There is no need for me to explain.  I betrayed you and now I suffer for it, more a thousand-fold than you can possibly suffer.  I offer no excuse.  I have none.  I simply betrayed you, and ask only that I may die with you.”

Then was manifest in John’s heart the noblest quality which God has given to man-charity, strengthened by reason.  His face glowed with a light that seemed saintlike, and a grand look of ineffable love and pity came to his eyes.  He seemed as if by inspiration to understand all that Dorothy had felt and done, and he knew that if she had betrayed him she had done it at a time when she was not responsible for her acts.  He stepped quickly to the girl’s side, and caring naught that we all should see him, caught her to his breast.  He held her in his arms, and the light of the flambeaux fell upon her upturned face.

“Dorothy,” he said, “it matters not what you have done; you are my only love.  I ask no explanation.  If you have betrayed me to death, though I hope it will not come to that evil, you did not do it because you did not love me.”

“No, no, John, you know that,” sobbed the girl.

“I do know it, Dorothy; I know all that I wish to know.  You would not intentionally bring evil upon me while you love me.”

“Ah, that I do, John; only God knows how deeply, how desperately.  My love was the cause—­my love was my curse—­it was your curse.”

“Do not weep, Dorothy,” said John, interrupting her.  “I would that I could take all your suffering upon myself.  Do not weep.”

Dorothy buried her face upon his breast and tears came to her relief.  She was not alone in her weeping, for there stood I like a very woman, and by my side stood rough old Sir William.  Tears were coursing down the bronzed cheek of the grand old warrior like drops of glistening dew upon the harrowed face of a mountain rock.  When I saw Sir William’s tears, I could no longer restrain my emotions, and I frankly tell you that I made a spectacle of myself in full view of the queen’s yeoman guard.