She struggled up on to her elbow, her eyes frantically appealing.

“Elisabeth, was it true?  Was it—­all true?”

In an instant Elisabeth’s hand closed round hers.

“My dear, you must try and face it.  And”—­her voice shook a little—­“you must try and forgive me for telling you.  But I couldn’t let you marry Garth Trent in ignorance, could I?”

“Then it is true?  Garth was court-martialled and—­and cashiered?” Sara sank back against her pillows.  Still, deep within her, there flickered a faint spark of hope.  Against all reason, against all common sense the faith that was within her fought against accepting the bitter knowledge that Garth was guilty of what was in her eyes the one unpardonable sin.

Unpardonable!  The word started a new and overwhelming train of thought.  She remembered that she had told Garth she did not care what sin he had been guilty of, had forced him to believe that nothing could make any difference to her love for him, to her willingness to become his wife, and share his burden.  Yet now, now that the hidden thing in his life had been revealed to her, she found herself shrinking from it in utter loathing!  Her promises of faith and loyalty were already crumbling under the strain of her knowledge of the truth.

She flinched from the recognition of the fact, seeking miserably to palliate and excuse it.  When she had given Garth that impetuous assurance of her confidence, she had not, in her crudest imaginings, dreamed of anything so hideous and ignoble as the actual truth had proved to be.  Vaguely, she had deemed him outcast for some big, reckless sin that by the splendour of its recklessness almost earned its own forgiveness.

And instead—­this!  This drab-hued, pitiful weakness for which she could find no pardon in her heart.

Through the turmoil of her thoughts she became conscious that Elisabeth was stooping over her, answering her wild incredulous questioning.

“Yes, it is true,” she was saying steadily.  “He was court-martialled and cashiered.  But, if you still doubt it, ask him yourself, Sara.”

Sara’s hands clenched themselves.  Her eyes were feverishly brilliant in her white, shrunken face.

“Yes, I’ll ask him myself.”  She panted a little.  “You must be wrong—­there must be some horrible mistake somewhere.  I’ve been mad—­mad to believe it for a single moment.”  She slipped from the bed to her feet, and stood confronting Elisabeth with a kind of desperate defiance.  “Do you hear what I say?” she said loudly.  “I don’t believe it.  I will never believe it till Garth himself tells me that it is true.”

“Oh, my dear”—­Elisabeth shrank away a little, but her eyes were kind and infinitely pitying.  Sara felt frightened of the pitying kindness in those eyes—­its rejection of Garth’s innocence was so much stronger than any asseveration of mere words.  Vaguely she heard Elisabeth’s patient voice:  “I think you are right.  Ask him yourself—­but, Sara, he will not be able to deny it.”