There Constance left his side; and, for the first time, their eyes met as they stood face to face under the bright moon.  Guy read his sentence instantly—­a sentence from which there was no appeal.  The very hopelessness of his situation restored its elasticity to the somewhat sullen pride which was the mainspring of his character.  He stood, waiting for her to speak; and his eyes were not cast down now, but riveted on her face—­gloomily defiant.

“I hope you will believe,” Miss Brandon said, “that it was quite involuntarily I became a spy on your actions.  I did not overhear one word; and my partner had that moment left me, when I saw—­” Not all her self-command could check the shudder that ran through every limb, and the choking in her throat that would interrupt her.

“I have very little to add,” she went on, more steadily.  “After what I witnessed, I need hardly say that we only meet again as the merest strangers.  You might think meanly of me, indeed, if I ever allowed your lips to touch my cheek or my hand again.  Remember, I told you from the first we were not suited to each other; perhaps I deserve all I have met with for allowing myself to be overruled.  You can not contradict a word of this, or say that it is unjust or severe.”

Did she pause in the expectation or the hope of an excuse, or an appeal from her hearer?  Only the hoarse answer came,

“I have forfeited the right to defend myself or to gainsay you.”

“You would find it difficult to do either,” Constance rejoined, rather more haughtily; perhaps she was disappointed in the tone of his reply.  “One word more:  if my name is ever called in question, I am sure no one will defend it more readily than yourself.  My voice will never be heard against you; and if, hereafter, you shall desire my forgiveness more than you now do; remember, I have given it unasked and freely.”

Guy’s tone was pregnant with cold, cruel irony as he answered,

“I congratulate you on your position, Miss Brandon; it is quite unassailable.  You are in the right now, as you always have been.  You were right, of course, in always doling out the tokens of your love in such scanty measure as your pride and your priests would allow.  They ought to canonize you—­those holy men!  I doubt if they have another disciple so superior to all human weaknesses.  It must be very gratifying to so eminent a Christian to be able to forgive plenarily, without danger of the favor being returned.  I have nothing to urge against your decision—­that we part forever.  You will have no difficulty in forgetting me, whom you ought never to have stooped to.  Yet I will give you one caution.  I am not romantic, as you know, and I generally mean what I say.  If you should think hereafter of bestowing yourself on some worthier object, hesitate a little for his sake, or wait till I am dead; otherwise, the day that makes his happiness certain may bring him very near his grave.”