I was silent.

“She is the ragged maid of the Westchester hills,” he said.

“She is the noblest maid that ever breathed in North America,” I said.

“Yes, Loskiel� . And, that being true, you are the fittest match for her the world could offer.”

I looked up, surprised, and flushed; and saw how colourless and wasted his face had grown, and how in his eyes all light seemed quenched. Never have I gazed upon so hopeless and haunted a visage as he turned to me.

“I walk the forests like a damned man,” he said, “already conscious of the first hot breath of hell� . Well — I had my chance, Loskiel.”

“You have it still.”

But he said no more, walking beside me with downcast countenance and brooding eyes fixed on our long shadows that led us slowly west.