ps mean so much.' Thus
I ran on to myself. I say I followed you through the hour of that
ceremony. I swore with her vows, I pledged with her pledge, promised
with her promise. Yes, yes--yes, though I prayed that, after all, I
might lose, that I might pay back; that I might some time have
opportunity to atone for my own wickedness! Ah! I was only a woman. The
strongest of women are weak sometimes.

"Well, then, my friend, I have paid. I thank God that I failed then to
make another wretched as myself. It was only I who again was wretched.
Ah! is there no little pity in your heart for me, after all?--who
succeeded only to fail so miserably?"

But again I could only turn away to ponder.

"See," she went on; "for myself, this is irremediable, but it is not so
for you, nor for her. It is not too ill to be made right again. There in
Montreal, I thought that I had failed in my plan, that you indeed were
married. You held yourself well in hand; like a man, Monsieur. But as to
that, you _were_ married, for your love for her remained; your pledge
held. And did not I, repenting, marry you to her--did not I, on my
knees, marry you to her that night? Oh, do not blame me too much!"

"She should not have doubted," said I. "I shall not go back and ask her
again. The weakest of men are strong sometimes!"

"Ah, now you are but a man! Being such, you can not understand how
terribly much the faith of man means for a woman. It was her _need_ for
you that spoke, not her _doubt_ of you. Forgive her. She was not to
blame. Blame me! Do what you like to punish me! Now, I shall make
amends. Tell me what I best may do. Shall I go to her, shall I tell
her?"

"Not as my messenger. Not for me."

"No? Well, then, for myself? That is my right. I shall tell her how
priestly faithful a man you were."

I walked to her, took her arms in my hands and raised her to my level,
looking into her eyes.

"Madam," I said, "God knows, I am no priest. I deserve no credit. It was
chance that cast Elisabeth and me together before ever I saw you. I told
you one fire was lit in my heart and had left room for no other. I meet
youth and life with all that there is in youth and life. I am no priest,
and ask you not to confess with me. We both should confess to our own
souls."

"It is as I said," she went on; "you were married!"

"Well, then, call it so--married after my fashion of marriage; the
fashion of which I told you, of a cabin and a bed of husks. As to w