Pocahontas rallied her forces resolutely, called up her pride, her womanhood, her sense of the wrong he had done her.  If she should give way an instant—­if she should yield a hair’s breadth, she would be lost.  The look in his eyes, the tenderness of his voice, appeared to sap the foundations of her resolution and to turn her heart to wax within her.

“Why have you come?” she wailed, her tone one of passionate reproach.  “Had you not done harm enough?  Why have you come?”

Thorne started slightly, but commanded himself.  It was the former marriage; the divorce; she felt it keenly—­every woman must; some cursed meddler had told her.

“My darling,” he answered, with patient tenderness, “you know why I have come—­why it was impossible for me to keep away.  I love you, Princess, as a man loves but once in his life.  Will you come to me?  Will you be my wife?”

The girl shook her head, and moved her hand with a gesture of denial; words she had none.

“I know of what you are thinking, Princess.  I know the idea that has taken possession of your mind.  You have heard of my former marriage, and you know that the woman who was my wife still lives.  Is it not so?” She bent her head in mute assent.  Thorne gazed at her pale, resolute face with his brows knit heavily, and then continued: 

“Listen to me, Princess.  That woman—­Ethel Ross—­is my wife no longer, even in name; she ceased to be my wife in fact two years ago.  Our lives have drifted utterly asunder.  It was her will, and I acquiesced in it, for she had never loved me, and I—­when my idiotic infatuation for her heartless, diabolical beauty passed, had ceased to love her.  At last, even my presence became a trouble to her, which she was at no pains to conceal.  The breach between us widened with the years, until nothing remained to us but the galling strain of a useless fetter.  Now that is broken, and we are free,”—­there was an exultant ring in his voice, as though his freedom were precious to him.

“Were you bound, or free, that night at Shirley?” questioned the girl, slowly and steadily.

A flush crept warmly over Thorne’s dark face, and lost itself in the waves of his hair.  He realized that he would meet with more opposition here than he had anticipated.  No matter; the prize was worth fighting for—­worth winning at any cost.  His determination increased with the force opposed to it, and so did his desire.

“In heart and thought I was free, but in fact I was bound,” he acknowledged.  “The words I spoke on the steps that night escaped me unaware.  I was tortured by jealousy, and tempted by love.  I had no right to speak them then; nothing can excuse or palliate the weakness which allowed me to.  I should have waited until I could come to you untrammeled—­as now.  I attempt no justification of my madness, Princess.  I have no excuse but my love, and can only sue for pardon.  You will forgive me, sweetheart”—­using the old word tenderly—­“for the sake of my great love.  It’s my only plea”—­his voice took a pleading tone as he advanced the plea hardest of all for a woman to steel her heart against.