Concerning the Princess Damaris

"God forgive him!" she whispered, bowing stately head.

"Speak!" says I, fiercely. "Have ye the truth of it at last?"

"'Tis that bringeth me here to you, Martin Conisby, to confess this wrong on his behalf and on his behalf to offer such reparation as I may. Alas! for the bodily sufferings you did endure we can never atone, but ... in all other ways--"

"Never!" says I, scowling. "What is done--is done, and I am--what I am. But for yourself his sin toucheth you no whit."

"How?" cried she passionately. "Am I not his flesh--his blood? 'Twas but lately I learned the truth from his secret papers ... and ... O 'twas all there ... even the price he paid to have you carried to the plantations! So am I come pleading your forgiveness for him and for me ... to humble myself before you ... see thus ... thus, upon my knees!"

Now beholding all the warm beauty of her as she knelt humbly before me, the surge and tumult of her bosom, the quiver of her red lips, the tearful light of her eyes, I was moved beyond speech, and ever she knelt there bowed and shaken in her mute abasement.

"My Lady Joan," said I at last, "for your pure self I can have nought to forgive--I--that am all unworthy to touch the latchet of your shoe ... Rise, I pray."

"And for--my father?" she whispered, "Alas, my poor, miserable father--"

"Speak not of him!" I cried. "Needs must there be hate and enmity betwixt us until the end." So was silence awhile nor did I look up, dreading to see her grief.