“I would not have you think,” she said clearly,—­“I would not have you even lightly dream, that his country is not my country!  I love him!”

“I know that you do.”

“There is no place so dark that I would not wait for him there as for the dawn.  There is no flood I would not cross to him; there is no deep pit in which I would not seek him, were he fallen there!  He has done wrong, and I am unhappy for it.  But never think, never dream, that, though I see the dark and broken ground, I would leave that country, or am less than wholly loyal to its King!”

“I have neither thought nor dreamed it.”

“When I—­when I learned this thing, it shook me so!  My brain whirled, and then I thought of you and called to you.”

“There is no service to which you could call me that I would not thankfully render.  I am your friend and your people’s friend.  There is one thing more I should like to say to you.  Do not fear for him.  There is no reason to believe that this will ever be discovered.  The lips of those who know are sealed.”

“Who knows?”

“On our side your uncles, my brother and I,—­and your cousin, I think, guesses.  The President, also, is aware—­”

She reddened deeply.  “I know,” she said, in a stifled voice.  “The President, too, is generous—­”

“On his—­on Mr. Rand’s side, certain men whom we need not name.  That he has secured their silence, events have proved, and I take it for granted that he has been careful to recall and to destroy any writing that might incriminate.  He is, I think, quite safe.”

She turned from him and, sitting down by the table, laid her head upon her arms.  He regarded her for a moment with compassion and understanding, chivalrous and deep, then, moving to the window, stood there with his face to the evening star.  At last she spoke in a broken and tremulous voice “Mr. Cary—­”

He came to her side.  “It is a peaceful night, still and bright.  You will sleep, will you not?  Leave all this to Time and to the power of steadfast love!  You may yet see in this land the grandeur of the dawn.”

“I know that I shall,” she answered.  “And when I see it, I shall think reverently of you.  It was like you to come, like you to help me so.  Now, good-night!”

She took his hand, and before he could prevent her, raised it to her lips.  “No,—­let me!  You are generous and you are noble.  I acknowledge it from my heart.  Good-night—­good-bye!”

He showed for a moment his pent emotion, then strove with and conquered it.  “I will go.  Your cousin is from home, and you are alone to-night.  Would you prefer that she should return?”

“No.  I had rather be alone.”

He took the hand that she gave him, kissed it, and said good-night.  When he was gone and his step had died from the street, she stood for some moments as he had left her, then, with a sobbing breath, turned to the table and took the letters from the drawer.