but patience for a moment, that I myself may tell
thee all."

And she saith unto him, "Say on."

So he spoke and said, "There is much that I may not tell thee, yet part
I will tell thee, for that I must. Thou hast heard how that my wife--"
But he could not continue, so dropped his face into my lady's hands,
and she waited for him, saying softly,

"I will understand what thou dost not say. Be not troubled, but speak
out thy soul to me;" and presently he told her more. As I do live, never
listened I to sadder story. So piteous it was that my tears fell down
like rain, and I was sore afraid that my sighing would discover my
whereabouts. But the Almighty is merciful even to sinners, and I
remained unnoted. 'Twas the old tale of love and treachery; a false wife
and a friend who was a villain.

The earl had killed the man (but in fair encounter), and his wife he had
brought back, never to be as husband to her more, but to preserve her
from further sin. And I do maintain that 'twas a noble act, and I did
quite forgive him the blood of his betrayer. Methought my lady did
forgive him too, for she did but stroke his hair softly, saying ever and
anon, "Poor soul!" or "God help thee!" And by-and-by he lifted his
face, and saith, "But the worst is yet to tell thee."

And she said again, "Say on."

And he trembled again, but spoke out bravely: "My wife yet lives. It was
she who bound thy wounds."

Now at this I thought to see my lady swoon; but she only smiled, though
better had one seen her weep than smile in such wise. And she saith, "I
have known that these many days;" and she leaned towards him, and placed
both hands upon his head, saying, "Weep not. I hold thee guiltless. Do
not weep."

But he sobbed, clasping her knees, as one whose heart is broken, saying
now and again below his breath, "O God! O God!"

If there be this side the stars a more awful sight than the sight of a
strong man in tears, God grant I may ne'er behold it, for surely I
should die of pity. Doth it please God that I resemble Abraham in the
matter of age, if in none other, ne'er will that scene fade from my
memory--my lady, so wan and white and narrow, like a tall lily over
which a rude wind hath swept, and at her knee the strong man, bowed as a
little lad that saith his prayers, clasping her kirtle and her hands, as
though one sinking in deep waters were to grasp at a floating stem of
flowers for support. And after a while, when the violence of hi