and a little light of anger dawned in her eyes. Did he think that he
could say a thing of that sort to her--when he pleased? Did he think
that because he had done her a great service, he could say casually what
belonged only to the sacred moments of existence? She looked at him with
rising indignation, but there suddenly came to her the conviction that he
had not spoken with affronting gallantry, but that for him the moment had
a gravity not to be marred by the place or the circumstance.

"I beg your pardon if I spoke hastily," he answered presently. "Yet
there's many a true word spoken in jest."

There was a moment's silence. She realized that he was drawn to her, and
that the attraction was not alone due to his having saved her at
Carillon; that he was not taking advantage of the thing which must ever
be a bond between them, whatever came of life. When she had seen him at
the Hospital Fete, a feeling had rushed over her that he had got nearer
to her than any man had ever done. Then--even then, she felt the thing
which all lovers, actual, or in the making, feel--that they must do
something for the being who to them is more than all else and all others.
She was not in love with Ingolby. How could she be in love with this man
she had seen but a few times--this Gorgio. Why was it that even as they
talked together now, she felt the real, true distance between them--of
race, of origin, of history, of life, of circumstance? The hut in the
wood where Gabriel Druse had carried Jethro Fawe was not three hundred
yards away.

She sighed, stirred, and a wild look came in her eyes--a look of
rebellion or of protest. Presently she recovered herself. She was a
creature of sudden moods.