“Your heart shall no longer be burdened by bonds which I can loosen.  Because your peace and happiness are more to me than my own, I grant you complete release.  When my ring affronts you with disagreeable memories of a past, which will always be hallowed and precious to me, as the one beautiful dream that brightened my youth, that crowned me for a season at least with the trust and love of the noblest woman I have ever known, do not return it; let it slip from the hand it made my own, and find in the blue sea a grave as deep as the chasm—­that you will—­shall divide our lives.  I honor you too profoundly to question your course; yet there is an explanation which I owe to myself as well as to you.  Leo, no man can ever be worthy to call you wife, but perhaps I am less unworthy than you probably deem me?  While in New Orleans, I wrote a long letter, which I afterward decided not to send by mail.  I brought it to-day, intending to put it into your hand.”

He took from the inside pocket of his coat, an envelope addressed to her, broke the seal and pointed at the head of the sheet to the date, some three weeks earlier.  She surmised by that wonderful instinct which God grants women as armor against the slow, ponderous aggressiveness of man’s tyranny, the nature of its contents.  Had she merely anticipated by an hour his petition for release?  Even the bitterness of this conjecture was neutralized by the testimony it bore to his integrity of purpose, his unwillingness to conceal his disloyalty.  When temples are shattered and altars crumble, we save our idol and flee into the wilderness, exulting in the assurance that no clay feet defile it.

Leo shook her head and gently put aside the proffered letter.

“You wrote it for the eyes of one who had pledged herself to bear your name; the revocation of that promise annuls my right to read it.”

Mr. Dunbar understood the apprehension that made her shiver slightly.  She was marching away proudly with flying colors, having dictated the terms of his capitulation.  Should he suffer the imputation of treachery and intentional deception, rather than turn the tide of battle, trail her banner in the dust, and add to her pain by mortally stabbing that intense womanly pride which now swallowed up every emotion of her soul?

The more thoroughly chivalrous a man’s nature, the keener his craving for the honors of war.

“Because henceforth our paths diverge, I prefer to offer you my exculpation, desiring amid the general wreck, to retain at least your undiminished esteem.  Will you read my confession?”

“No; that would entail the necessity of absolution, and I might not be able to command the requisite amiability, should occasion demand it.  We have shaken hands with the past, and you owe me nothing now but pardon for any pain I may have given you, and occasional kind thoughts when the ocean divides us.  I promise you my unwavering esteem; in exchange grant me your cordial friendship.”