“David!”

I started violently at the sound of my name, at the new note in her voice, at the change in the woman as I turned.  And then before I realized what she had done she had come to me swiftly and laid her hand upon my arm.

“David, does he hate me?”

All the hope remaining in her life was in that question, was in her face as she searched mine with a terrible scrutiny.  And never had I known such an ordeal.  It seemed as if I could not answer, and as I stood staring back at her a smile was forced to her lips.

“I will pay you one tribute, my friend,” she said; “you are honest.”

But even as she spoke I saw her sway, and though I could not be sure it were not a dizziness in me, I caught her.  I shall always marvel at the courage there was in her, for she straightened and drew away from me a little proudly, albeit gently, and sat down on the knee of the oak, looking across the bayou towards the mist of the swamp.  There was the infinite calmness of resignation in her next speech.

“Tell me about him,” she said.

She was changed indeed.  Were it not so I should have heard of her own sufferings, of her poor, hunted life from place to place, of countless nights made sleepless by the past.  Pride indeed was left, but the fire had burned away the last vestige of selfishness.

I sat down beside her, knowing full well that I should be judged by what I said.  She listened, motionless, though something of what that narrative cost her I knew by the current of sympathy that ran now between us.  Unmarked, the day faded, a new light was spread over the waters, the mist was spangled with silver points, the Spanish moss took on the whiteness of lace against the black forest swamp, and on the yellow face of the moon the star-shaped leaves of a gum were printed.

At length I paused.  She neither spoke, nor moved—­save for the rising and falling of her shoulders.  The hardest thing I had to say I saved for the last, and I was near lacking the courage to continue.

“There is Mademoiselle Antoinette—­” I began, and stopped,—­she turned on me so quickly and laid a hand on mine.

“Nick loves her!” she cried.

“You know it!” I exclaimed, wondering.

“Ah, David,” she answered brokenly, “I foresaw it from the first.  I, too, love the girl.  No human being has ever given me such care and such affection.  She—­she is all that I have left.  Must I give her up?  Have I not paid the price of my sins?”

I did not answer, knowing that she saw the full cruelty of the predicament.  What happiness remained to her now of a battered life stood squarely in the way of her son’s happiness.  That was the issue, and no advice or aid of mine could change it.  There was another silence that seemed to me an eternity as I watched, a helpless witness, the struggle going on within her.  At last she got to her feet, her face turned to the shadow.