“Wrong!  It was one of the bravest things I ever heard of.  And I know the rest—­your encounter with Kirby in the library.  I overheard all of that through the open window, and how you learned from him that certain legal papers would have to be served on Eloise Beaucaire before any of the slaves could be touched, or removed from the estate.  That knowledge only brought you new courage to play out your part.  But why did you trust me enough to go with me?  And, after trusting me so fully, why did you refuse to tell me who you really were?”

Her eyes fell before mine, and her cheeks were flushed.

“I—­I do not believe I can tell you that, Lieutenant.  You—­you see I am not even sure I know.  At first, there in the library, I was compelled to choose instantly between you, and—­and something infinitely worse.  I—­I supposed that man Kirby was dead; that—­that you had killed him to save me.  I—­I looked into your face, and—­and it was a man’s face; you said you were an army officer.  I—­I had to believe and trust you.  There was no other way.  Please do not ask me to explain any more.”

“I shall not—­only just this.  If you actually believed in me, trusted me, as you say, why should you still claim to be Rene; and continually remind me there was negro blood in your veins; that you were a negress and a slave?”

“You think that strange?  I did trust you, Lieutenant Knox, and I trusted you more completely the longer we were together.  But—­but I did not wholly understand.  You were endeavoring to rescue Rene from slavery.  I could not conceive what interest you might feel if I should confess myself Eloise.  You were strange to me; we were there alone with the negro, and—­and somehow it seemed a protection to me to claim a drop of black blood.  Twice I thought to tell you—­the words were on my lips—­but something stopped them.  Possibly, just a little, I was afraid of you.”

“Then—­but not now?”

“No, not now—­not even a little; you have proven yourself all I ever hoped you would be.  I am glad—­so glad—­to say to you now, I am Eloise Beau—­”

She stopped suddenly, the word half uttered, the smile fading from her lips.  She withdrew her hands from my clasp and pressed them over her eyes.

“My God!” she burst forth.  “But I am not!  I am not!  Why, I never felt the horror of it all before—­I am not Eloise Beaucaire!”

A moment I stood motionless, seeming to hold my breath, my eyes open, struck silent by the intense bitterness of that cry.  Then the reaction came, the knowledge that I must turn her thought elsewhere.

“Do not say that, or even think it,” I urged, scarcely able to restrain myself from grasping her in my arms.  “Even if it shall prove true—­legally true—­some way of escape will be found.  The others are safe, and you are going to need all your courage.  Pledge me to forget, to ignore this thing.  I need you.”