“I did not go.”

For a few minutes he lay with closed eyes; when he again opened them upon my face, there were in their depths a question and an appeal. I bent over him, and asked him what he would have.

“You know,” he whispered. “If you can� I would not go without it.”

“Is it that?” I asked. “I forgave you long ago.”

“I meant to kill you. I was mad because you struck me before the lady, and because I had betrayed my trust. An you had not caught my hand, I should be your murderer.” He spoke with long intervals between the words, and the death dew was on his forehead.

“Remember it not, Diccon,” I entreated.