Cecil's gauntlet--stained and stiffened with his blood. That was
the treasure he would not resign when he lay on the ground, waiting for
the Russian lances. "You did not think that I should forget you, because
I never answered your letter?"

As had happened once before, a portion of his fortitude and self-command
seemed transfused into Cecil Tresilyan. She spoke quite steadily now.

"How could I misjudge your silence, when I begged you not to write? I
have been very miserable, thinking how angry you would be; and yet I
could not help what I did. But I never fancied you had forgotten me.
Forgetting is not so easy. Now tell me about yourself. I have heard of
that glorious charge. But those terrible wounds--how you must have
suffered!"

Out of the dim, glazing eyes flashed for one moment a gleam of soldierly
pride. "Yes, we rode straight, on the twenty-fifth--I among the rest. I
suppose I have suffered some pain, but that is all past and gone. I am
sensible of nothing but the great happiness of holding your little hand
once more. See--I can hold it without shame, for my fingers have not
pressed those of any woman alive since we parted."

She saw how the utterance of those few words told upon him, and
refrained from the delight of listening longer to the voice that was
still to her inexpressibly dear. So she checked him fondly when he would
have gone on speaking. Yet the silence that ensued was first broken by
Cecil.

"My own! I fear--I fear that you are in great danger. How long we may
_both_ have to suffer, God alone can tell. But will you not see a
clergyman? He might help you though I am weak and powerless."

A shadow of the old sardonic scorn swept across Keene's emaciated face,
and passed away as suddenly.

"It is somewhat late for any help that priests can bring. Besides, I can
not dwell now on any of my past sins, save one. All my thoughts are
taken up with the wrong that I have done to you."

This was true. If there were reproachful phantoms that had a right to
haunt Royston's death-bed, the living presence kept them all at bay.

Cecil's eyes had never been more eloquent than they were then, but they
spoke of nothing but despair.

"Ah, heaven! can not you see that all _I_ have to forgive has been
forgiven long ago? What is to become of me if you die hardened in your
sin? Must I live on, _hoping_ that we are parted forever? If you are
pitiless to your own soul, have mercy, at least, upon me!"

All Roys