ather?"

He looked at her sharply, yet saw nothing but loveliness rendered more
appealing by sorrow. Clearly she did not suspect him of betrayal; did
not realize that an oath extorted by violence--and an oath, moreover, to
be false to a sacred duty--could not be accounted binding.

"I... I heard of it an hour ago," he lied a thought unsteadily. "I... I
commiserate you deeply."

"I deserve commiseration," answered she, "and so does my poor father,
and those others. It is plain that amongst those he trusted there was
a traitor, a spy, who went straight from that meeting to inform against
them. If I but had a list it were easy to discover the betrayer. One
need but ascertain who is the one of all who were present whose arrest
has been omitted." Her lovely sorrowful eyes turned full upon him. "What
is to become of me now, alone in the world?" she asked him. "My father
was my only friend."

The subtle appeal of her did its work swiftly. Besides, he saw here a
noble opportunity worth surely some little risk.

"Your only friend?" he asked her thickly. "Was there no one else? Is
there no one else, Isabella?"

"There was," she said, and sighed heavily. "But after what befell last
night, when... You know what is in my mind. I was distraught then,
mad with fear for this poor father of mine, so that I could not even
consider his sin in its full heinousness, nor see how righteous was your
intent to inform against him. Yet I am thankful that it was not by
your deletion that he was taken. The thought of that is to-day my only
consolation."

They had reached her house by now. Don Rodrigo put forth his arm to
assist her to alight from her litter, and begged leave to accompany her
within. But she denied him.

"Not now--though I am grateful to you, Rodrigo. Soon, if you will come
and comfort me, you may. I will send you word when I am more able to
receive you--that is, if I am forgiven for..."

"Not another word," he begged her. "I honour you for what you did. It is
I who should sue to you for forgiveness."

"You are very noble and generous, Don Rodrigo. God keep you!" And so she
left him.

She had found him--had she but known it--a dejected, miserable man in
the act of reckoning up all that he had lost. In betraying Susan he had
acted upon an impulse that sprang partly from rage, and partly from
a sense of religious duty. In counting later the cost to himself,
he cursed the folly of his rage, and began to wonder if such str