“My hero!” she whispered. “You thought it best that I should never know. And so you said you were not an innocent man.”
“Nor was I,” he faltered. “You soon saw that for yourself. They may hang me yet!”
“And you wouldn’t have me think of you any more,” continued Claire, a spasm of pain crossing her face at his words. “But I will—I will! I’ll think of you till I die: my own hero!”
He fidgeted horribly, looking towards the door. She would compromise herself—she would do herself harm. That was still his first thought; she saw it, and it floated her to the crest of that emotional wave in whose trough he trembled.
“I believed you guilty—may God forgive me!” she cried. “But—shall I tell you something?”
“Well?”
“I loved you all the same!”
“I won’t believe it,” he said at last.
“I did—I know it now.”
“Then forget it!” he cried hoarsely. “For God’s sake, remember nobody but the man you are to marry to-morrow morning. What? Claire?” He started from her; she had shaken her head. She shook it more passionately for that; but she did not speak. So he began—hardly knowing what he said—but pleading for his best friend—pleading for her honour—pleading for sacred duty as his male eye saw it. She was going to marry a generous and brave man, to whom he owed, not only his life twice over, but any good that was left in him. Yet neither was the other a faultless man, though so generous and so brave, and his one great anchor to good sense and good living was his love for Claire.
