"How is that?" asked the other five at once.
"How is it that Red Jason has gone to prison? For threatening Michael Sunlocks? Very likely," said Jacob, with a curl of the lip.
"What then?" said John.
"For threatening herself," said Jacob. "She has lied about it."
"And what if she has? Where's our account in that?" said Asher.
"Where? Why, with her husband," said Jacob, and four distinct whistles answered him.
"You go bail Michael Sunlocks knows less than we know," Jacob added, "and maybe we might tell him something that would be worth a trifle."
"What's that?" asked John.
"That she loved Red Jason, and ought to have married him," said Jacob; "but threw him up after they had been sweethearting together, because he was poor, and then came to Iceland and married Michael Sunlocks because he was rich."
"Chut! Numskull again! He'd never believe you," said Thurstan.
"Would he not?" said Jacob, "then maybe he would believe his own eyes. Look there," and he drew a letter out of his pocket.
It was the abandoned letter that Greeba wrote to Jason.
"Isn't he a boy!" chuckled Gentleman John.
Two days longer they stayed at Reykjavik, and rambled idly about the town, much observed by the Icelanders and Danes for their monkey jackets of blue Manx cloth, and great sea boots up to their thighs. Early on the afternoon of the second day they sighted, from the new embankment where they stood and watched the masons, a ship coming up the fiord from the Smoky Point. It was a brig, with square sails set, and as she neared the port she ran up a flag to the masthead. The flag was the Icelandic flag, the banner of the Vikings, the white falcon on the blue ground, and the Fairbrothers noticed that at the next moment it was answered by a like flag on the flag-staff of Government House.
"He's coming, he's yonder," said Jacob, flapping his hands under his armpits to warm them.
In a few minutes they saw that there was a flutter over the smooth surface of the life of the town, and that small groups of people were trooping down to the jetty. Half an hour later the brig ran into harbor, dropped anchor below the lava reef, and sent its small boat ashore. Three men sat in the boat; the two sailors who rowed, and a gentleman who sat on the seat between them. The gentleman was young, flaxen-haired, tall, slight, with a strong yet winsome face, and clad in a squirrel-skin coat and close-fitting squirrel-skin cap. When the boat grounded by the jetty he leapt ashore with a light spring, smiled and nodded to the many who touched their hats to him, hailed others with a hearty word, and then swung into the saddle of a horse that stood waiting for him, and rode away at an eager trot in the direction of Government House.
It was Michael Sunlocks.
CHAPTER XI.
The Pardon
When the men whom Michael Sunlocks sent into the interior after Adam Fairbrother and his shipwrecked company returned to him empty-handed, he perceived that they had gone astray by crossing a great fiord lying far east of Hekla when they should have followed the course of it down to the sea. So, counting the time that had been wasted, he concluded to take ship to a point of the southern coast in the latitude of the Westmann Islands, thinking to meet old Adam somewhere by the fiord's mouth. The storm delayed him, and he reached the fiord too late; but he came upon some good news of Adam there: that, all well, though sore beset by the hard weather, and enfeebled by the misfortunes that had befallen them, the little band of ship-broken men had, three days before his own coming, passed up the western bank of the fiord on foot, going slowly and heavily laden, but under the safe charge of a guide from Stappen.
Greatly cheered in heart at these good tidings Michael Sunlocks had ordered a quick return, for it was unsafe, and perhaps impossible, to follow up through the narrow chasms of the fiord in a ship under sail. On getting back to Reykjavik he intended to take ponies across country in the direction of Thingvellir, hoping to come upon old Adam and his people before they reached the lake or the great chasm on the western side of the valley, known as the Chasm of All Men.
And thinking, amid the flutter of joyful emotions, that on the overland journey he would surely take Greeba with him, for he could never bear to be so long parted from her again, all his heart went back to her in sweet visions as his ship sped over the sea. Her beauty, her gentleness, her boldness, her playful spirits, and all her simple loving ways came flowing over him wave after wave, and then in one great swelling flood. And in the night watches, looking over the dark waters, and hearing nothing but their deep moan, he could scarce believe his fortune, being so far away from the sight of her light figure, and from the hearing of her sweet voice, that she was his – his love, his wife, his darling. A hundred tender names he would call her then, having no ear to hear him but the melancholy waves, no tongue to echo him but the wailing wind, and no eye to look upon him but the eye of night.
And many a time on that homeward voyage, while the sails bellowed out to the fair breeze that was carrying him to her, he asked himself however he had been able to live so long without her, and whether he could live without her now if evil chance plunged his great happiness into greater grief. Thinking so, he recalled the day of her coming, and the message he got from the ship in the harbor saying she had come before her time, and how he had hastened down, and into the boat, and across the bay, and aboard, with a secret trembling lest the years might have so changed her as to take something from her beauty, or her sweetness, or her goodness, or yet the bounding playfulness that was half the true girl's charm. But, oh, the delicious undeceiving of that day, when, coming face to face with her again, he saw the rosy tint in her cheek and the little delicate dimple sucked into it when she smiled, and the light footstep, and the grace of motion, and the swelling throat, and the heaving bosom and the quivering lids over the most glorious eyes that ever shone upon this earth! So, at least, it had seemed to him then, and still it seemed so as his ship sailed home.
At Smoky Point they lay off an hour or two to take in letters for the capital, and there intelligence had come aboard of the arrest, trial, and condemnation of Jason for his design and attempt upon the life of the President. Michael Sunlocks had been greatly startled and deeply moved by the news, and called on the master to weigh the anchor without more delay than was necessary, because he had now a double reason for wishing to be back in Reykjavik.
And being at length landed there he galloped up to Government House, bounded indoors with the thought of his soul speaking out of his eyes, and found Greeba there and every one of his sweetest visions realized. All his hundred tender, foolish, delicious names he called her over again, but with better ears to hear them, while he enfolded her in his arms, with both her own about his neck, and her beautiful head nestling close over his heart, and her fluttering breast against his breast.
"Dearest," he whispered, "my darling, love of my life, however could I leave you so long?"
"Michael," she whispered back, "if you say any more I shall be crying."
But the words were half smothered by sobs, for she was crying already. Seeing this, he sheered off on another tack, telling her of his mission in search of her father, and that if he had not brought the good man back, at least he had brought good news of him, and saying that they were both to start to-morrow for Thingvellir with the certainty of meeting him and bringing him home with great rejoicings.
"And now, my love, I have a world of things to attend to before I can go," said Michael Sunlocks, "and you have to prepare for two days in the saddle over the snow."
Greeba had been smiling through the big drops that floated in her eyes, but she grew solemn again, and said —
"Ah, Michael, you cannot think what trouble we have all had while you have been away."
"I know it – I know all," said Michael Sunlocks, "so say no more about it, but away to your room, my darling."
With that he rang a hand-bell that stood on the table, and Oscar, his servant, answered the call.
"Go across to the jail," he said, "and tell Jon that his prisoner is not to be removed until he has had orders from me."
"What prisoner, your Excellency?" said Oscar.
"The prisoner known as Jason," said Michael Sunlocks.
"He's gone, your Excellency," cried Oscar.
"Gone?"
"I mean to the Sulphur Mines, your Excellency."
"When was he sent?"
"Yesterday morning, at daybreak, your Excellency."
Michael Sunlocks sat at a table and wrote a few lines, and handed them to his man, saying, "Then take this to the Lagmann, and say I shall wait here until he comes."
While this was going forward Greeba had been standing by the door with a troubled look, and when Oscar was gone from the room she returned to her husband's side, and said, with great gravity, "Michael, what are you going to do with that man?"
But Michael Sunlocks only waved his hand, and said, "Nay, now, darling, you shall not trouble about this matter any more. It is my affair, and it is for me to see to it."
"But he has threatened your life," cried Greeba.
"Now, love, what did I say?" said Michael Sunlocks, with uplifted finger and a pretence at reproof. "You've fretted over this foolish thing too long; so think no more about it, and go to your room."
She turned to obey.
"And, darling," he cried in another voice, as she was slowly going, "that I may seem to have you with me all the same, just sing something, and I shall hear you while I work. Will you? There!" he cried, and laughed before she had time to answer. "See what a goose you have made of me!"
She came back, and for reply she kissed his forehead, and he put his lips to her lovely hand. Then, with a great lump in her throat, and the big drops rolling from her eyes to her cheeks, she left him to the work she sorely feared.
And being alone, and the candles lighted and the blinds drawn down, for night had now fallen in, he sat at the table to read the mass of letters that had gathered in his absence. There was no communication of any kind from the Government at Copenhagen, and satisfying himself on this point, and thinking for the fiftieth time that surely Denmark intended, as she ought, to leave the people of world-old Iceland to govern themselves, he turned with a sigh of relief to the strange, bewildering, humorous, pathetic hodge-podge of petitions, complaints, requests, demands and threats that came from every quarter of the island itself. And while he laughed and looked grave, and muttered, and made louder exclamations over these, as one by one they passed under his eye, suddenly the notes of a harpsichord, followed shortly by the sweeter notes of a sweet voice, came to him from another room, and with the tip of his pen to his lips, he dropped back in his chair to listen.
"My own song," he thought, and his eyelids quivered.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine.
Oh, leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not ask for wine;
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup
I would not change for thine."
It was Greeba singing to him as he had bidden her.
"God bless her," he thought again in the silence that followed.
Ah, little did he think as he listened to her song that the eyes of the singer were wet, and that her heart was eating itself out with fears.
"What have I done to deserve such happiness?" he asked himself. But just as it happens that at the moment when our passionate joy becomes conscious of itself we find some dark misgivings creep over us of evil about to befall, so the bounding gladsomeness of Michael Sunlocks was followed by a chill dread that he tried to put aside and could not.
It was at that moment that the Lagmann entered the room. He was very tall and slight, and had a large head that drooped like daffodil. His dress was poor, he was short-sighted, growing elderly, and silent of manner. Nothing in his appearance or bearing would have suggested that he had any pride of his place as Judge of the island. He was a bookworm, a student, a scholar, and learned in the old sagas and eddas.
"Lagmann," said Michael Sunlocks, with simple deference. "I have sent for you on a subject of some moment to myself."
"Name it!" said the Judge.
"During my absence a man has been tried and condemned by the Bishop's court for threatening my life," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Jason, the son of Stephen Orry and Rachel, daughter of the late Governor-General Jorgensen," said the Judge.
"That is he, and I want you to give me an opinion respecting him," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Gladly," said the Judge.
"He was sent to the Sulphur Mines," said Michael Sunlocks.
"For six months, certain," said the Judge.
"Can we recall him, and have him tried afresh by the Court of the Quarter or the High Court of Justice?" said Michael Sunlocks.
"Too late for that," said the Judge. "A higher court, if it had condemned at all, might certainly have given him a longer punishment, but his sentence of six months is coupled with a condition that he shall hereafter take an oath of peace towards you. So have no fear of him."
"I have none at all," said Michael Sunlocks, "as my next question will show."
"What is it?" said the Judge.
"Can I pardon him?" said Michael Sunlocks.
For a moment the Lagmann was startled out of his placid manner, but recovering his composure he answered, "Yes, a President has sovereign powers of pardon."
"Then, Lagmann," said Michael Sunlocks, "will you see the needful papers drawn for my signature?"
"Surely," said the Judge. "But, first, will you pardon me?" he added, with a shadow of a smile.
"Say what you please, Lagmann," said Michael Sunlocks.
"It is possible that you do not yet know the nature of the evidence given at the trial," said the Judge.
"I think I do," said Michael Sunlocks.
"That this man claims to be your half-brother?"
"He is my brother."
"That he thinks you have stood in his place?"
"I have stood in his place."
"That he is jealous of you, and in his madness has vowed to slay you?"
"His jealousy is natural, and his vow I do not dread."
The cold-mannered Lagmann paused a moment, wiped his short-sighted eyes with his red print handkerchief, and then said in a husky voice, "This is very noble of you. I'll go at once for the document."
He had only just gone from the room when Greeba returned to it. She had tried too long to conquer her agitation and could not, and now with wide eyes and a look of fear in them she hastened back to her husband the moment the Lagmann had left him.
"Michael," she cried, "what has the Lagmann gone for?"
"For a form of pardon," he answered.
"Pardon for that man?" she asked.
"Even so," he said, "and I have promised to sign it."
"Oh, Michael, my love – my dear, kind Michael!" she cried, in a pitiful voice of entreaty, "don't do it, don't I pray of you – don't bring that man back."
"Why, Greeba, what is this?" said Michael Sunlocks. "What is it troubles my little woman?"
"Dear Michael," she cried once more, "for your own sake think again before you sign that pardon."
"Ah, I see," said he, "my darling has been all unstrung by this ugly business. Yes, and now I remember what they told me down at Smoky Point. It was my love herself that gave the poor lad up to justice. That was very brave of my darling; for her husband, bless her dear heart, was before all the world to her. Ah, yes, I know that all her love is mine, her love is first and last with her as with all warm natures. But she must not fear for me. No, she must not worry, but go back, like a dear soul, and leave this matter to me."
"Michael, my dear, noble Michael, I have something to say; will you not hear me?"
"No, no, no," he answered.
"Not for a moment? I have set my heart on telling you."
"Not for one little moment. But if you have set your heart on anything else, then, my darling, just think of it double, whatever it is, and it is yours already."
"But why may I not speak of this pardon?"
"Because, though I have never yet set eyes upon this poor man I know more about him than my darling can ever know, and because it is natural that her sweet little heart, that is as brave as a lion for herself but as timid as a fawn for me, should exaggerate my peril. So now, no more words about it, but go, go."
She was about to obey when the maid came to say that dinner was ready. And then with a little shout of joy Michael Sunlocks threw down his papers, encircled his arm about Greeba's waist, and drew her along laughing, with her smiles fighting their way through her tears.
During the dinner he talked constantly of the dangers and trials and amusing mischances of his voyage, laughing at them all now they were over, and laughing at Greeba, too, for the woeful face with which she heard of them. And when they rose from the table he called on her for another song, and she sat at the harpsichord and sang, though something was swelling in her throat and often her heart was in her mouth. But he recked nothing of this, and only laughed when her sweet voice failed her, and filled up the breaks with his own rich tones.
In the midst of the singing the maid came in and said something which Michael Sunlocks did not catch, for it was drowned to his ear by the gladsome uproar that he himself was making; but Greeba heard it and stopped playing, and presently the Lagmann entered the room.
"A good thing is no worse for being done betimes," said the Judge, "so here is the pardon ready to your hand for signature."
And with that he handed a paper to Michael Sunlocks, who said with cheer, "You're right, Lagmann, you're right; and my wife will give you a glass of wine while I write you my name."
"A cup of coffee, if you are taking it," said the Judge, with a bow to Greeba, who saw nothing of it, for her eyes were following her husband.
"Michael," she said, "I beseech you not to sign that paper. Only give way to me this once; I have never asked you before, and I will never ask you again. I am in earnest, Michael dear, and if you will not yield to me for your own sake, yield to me for mine."
"How is this? How grave we are!" said Michael Sunlocks, pausing with pen in hand.
"I know I have no right to meddle in such matters, but, dear Michael, don't sign that pardon – don't bring that man back. I beseech you, I beg of you."
"This is very strange," said Michael Sunlocks.
"It is also very simple," said the Judge, bringing his red handkerchief up to his dim eyes again.
"What!" said Michael Sunlocks. "Greeba, you do not know this man – this Jason?"
Greeba hesitated a moment, and glanced at the Lagmann.
"You don't know him?" repeated Michael Sunlocks.
She was sorely tempted, and she fell. "For my husband's sake," she thought, and then with a prayer for pardon she lifted her head and said falteringly, "No, no – why no, of course not."
Michael Sunlocks was satisfied. "'Why no, of course not,'" he echoed, laughing a little, and then he dipped his quill in the ink-horn.
"But I beseech you again, do not bring that man back," she cried.
There was a painful pause, and, to cover it, the Lagmann said, "Your husband is a brave-hearted man, who does not know the name of fear."
And then Michael Sunlocks said, "I will ask your pardon, Lagmann, while I step into the next room with my wife. I have something to tell her. Come, Greeba, come. I'll leave the document with you for the present, Lagmann," he added over his shoulder as he passed out. Greeba walked beside him with downcast eyes, like a guilty thing condemned.
"Now, love," he said, when they were alone, "it is sweet and beautiful of you to think so much of me, but there is something that you do not know, and I ought to tell you. Maybe I hinted at it in my letter, but there has never been a chance to explain. Have you heard that this Jason is my brother?"
"Yes," said Greeba, faintly.
"It is true," said Michael Sunlocks. "And you know that when I first came to Iceland it was not to join the Latin school, but on an errand of mercy?"
"Yes," said Greeba.
"Well, the first of my duties was to find Jason's mother, and the next, was to find Jason himself."
"Jason!" cried Greeba.
"Yes, it was my father who sent me, for they had suffered much through his great fault, God forgive him! and I was to succor them in their distress. You know what followed?"
"Yes," said Greeba, softly.
"I came too late for the mother; the good woman was in her grave. I could not light upon her son, and lent an ear to the idle story that he was dead also. My search ceased, my zeal flagged, and, putting aside the solemn promise I made my father, I went on with my own affairs. But I never believed that he was dead, and I felt I should live to meet with him yet."
"Oh! oh!" cried Greeba.
"And many a time since my conscience has reproached me with a mission unfulfilled; and, awakening from many a dream of the hour and the place wherein I pledged my word to him that died trusting me, loving me, doting on me – heaven pity him, bad man though he was – as never a son was loved by a father before, it has not appeased me to say to myself, 'Michael, while you are here, given up to your ambitions, he is there amid the perils and hardships of the sea, and he is your brother, and the only kinsman left to you in the wide world.'"
Greeba was sobbing by this time.
"And now, my darling, you know all, and why I wish to sign this pardon. Could I ever know a moment's happiness with my brother slaving like a beast at yonder mines? What if he is jealous of me, and if his jealousy had driven him to madness! There is a sense in which he is right. But, whether right or wrong, mad or sane, he shall not be punished for my sake. So, dearest love, my darling, dry your beautiful eyes, and let me ease my conscience the only way I may, for I have no fear, and my wife must have none."
"Sunlocks," said Greeba, "you have made me ashamed. I am no fit wife for a man like you. I am too little-hearted. Oh, why did I ever come? Why? Why?" And she wept as if her heart would break. He comforted her with tender protests, enfolding her in his arms and caressing her lovely head.
"Tell me," he whispered, "nay, there, hide your face in my breast. There, there, tell me now – tell me all."
"Sunlocks," she said, drawing back, "I have lied to you."
"Lied?"
"When I told you I had not known Jason I told you what was false."
"Then you have known him?"
"Yes, I knew him in the Isle of Man."
"The Isle of Man?"
"He lived there nearly five years."
"All the time he was away?"
"Yes, he landed the night you sailed. You crossed him on the sea."
"Greeba, why did he go there? Yet how should you know?"
"I do know, Michael – it was to fulfil his vow – his vow that the old priest spoke of in court – his wicked vow of vengeance."
"On my father?"
"On your father and on you."
"God in heaven!" cried Michael Sunlocks, with great awe. "And that very night my father was saved from his own son by death."
"It was he who saved your father from the sea."
"Wait," said Michael Sunlocks; "did you know of this vow before you accused him of an attempt upon me?"
Greeba caught her breath, and answered, "Yes."
"Did you know of it while you were still in the Isle of Man?"
"Yes," she answered again, more faintly.
"Did he tell you?"
"Yes, and he bound me by a promise never to speak of it, but I could not keep it from my own husband."
"That's strange," said Michael Sunlocks, with a look of pain. "To share a secret like that with you was very strange," he added.
Greeba was flurried, and said again, too bewildered to see which way her words were tending, "And he gave me his promise in return to put aside his sinful purpose."
"That's still stranger," said Michael Sunlocks. "Greeba," he added, in another tone, "why should you say you did not know Jason?"
"Because the Lagmann was with us."
"But why, my girl? Why?"
"Lest evil rumors might dishonor my husband."
"But where was the dishonor to me in my wife knowing this poor lad, Greeba?"
At that she hesitated a moment, and then in a tone of gentle reproof she said, nestling close to him and caressing his sleeve, "Michael, why do you ask such questions?"
But he did not turn aside for that, but looked searchingly into her face, and said, "He was nothing to you, was he?"
She hesitated again, and then tried to laugh, "Why, what should he be to me?" she said.
He did not flinch, but repeated, "He was nothing to you then?"
"Nobody save my husband has ever been anything to me," she said, with a caress.
"He was nothing to you – no?"
"No," she answered, throwing back her head.
Just then the English maid came to say that the six big Englishmen who had been there before were in the kitchen again, and asking to see her master, not her mistress, this time. In an instant Greeba's little burst of disdain was spent, and she was all humility and entreaty.
"Don't go to them," she cried. "Don't listen to them."
"Who are they?" he asked.
"My brothers. I have not had time to tell you, but I will tell you now."
She put her arms about his neck as if to hold him.
"What have they come for?"
"To tell you some falsehood, and so revenge themselves on me. I know it, I feel it. Ah, a woman's instinct is sure. But, dear Michael, you will not receive them. Refuse, and I will tell you such a story. And you will laugh – "
"Let me go, Greeba," he said, unloosing the grip of her tightening arms, and the next moment he was gone from the room. Then all the spirit of the woman arose in Greeba, and, throwing aside her vague fears, she resolved, as only a woman could, in the cruel hour when a dear heart seemed to be slipping away from her, that, come what would, she should hold to her husband at all hazards, and that whatever her brothers might say against her, let it be true or false, if it threatened to separate her from him, she must deny it. What matter about the truth? Her love was before everything. And who was to disprove her word? Jason alone could do so, and his tongue was sealed forever in a silence as deep as the grave's.
Michael Sunlocks went out of the room like a man in a dream: an ugly dream, a dream of darkening terrors undefined. He came back to it like one who has awakened to find that his dream has come true. Within one hour his face seemed to have grown old. He stooped, he stumbled on the floor, his limbs shook under him, he was a broken and sorrowful man. At sight of him Greeba could scarcely restrain an impulse to scream. She ran to him, and cried, "Michael, husband, what have they told you?"
At first he looked stupidly into her quivering face, and then glancing down at a paper he held in one hand he made an effort to conceal it behind him. She was too quick for him, and cried, "What is it? Show it me."
"It's nothing," he said; "nothing, love, nothing – "
"What have they told you?" she said again, "tell me – tell me."
"They say that you loved Jason," he answered with a great effort.
"It's a lie," she cried stoutly.
"They say that you were to marry him."
She tried to answer as stoutly as before, "And that's a lie, too," but the words stuck in her throat.
"Oh! God," he cried, and turned away from her.
There was a stove in the room, and he stepped up to it, opened the iron door, and thrust the paper into the crackling fire.
"What is that you are burning?" she cried. And in another moment, before he knew what she was doing, she had run to the stove, pulled back with her bare hands the hot door that he was closing with the tongs, thrust her arm into the fire, and brought out the paper. It was in flames, and she rolled it in her palms until little but its charred remains lay in her scorched fingers. But she saw what it had been – her own abandoned letter to Red Jason. Then, slowly looking up, she turned back to her husband, pale, a fearful chill creeping over her, and he had thrown himself down on a chair by the table and hidden his face in his arms.
It was a pitiful and moving sight. To see that man, so full of hope and love and simple happy trust a little hour ago, lie there with bent head and buried eyes, and hands clasped together convulsively, because the idol he had set up for himself lay broken before him, because the love wherein he lived lay dead; and to see that woman, so beautiful, and in heart so true, though dogged by the malice of evil chance, though weak as a true woman may be, stand over him with whitening lips and not a word to utter – to see this was to say, "What devil of hell weaves the web of circumstance in this world of God?"
Then, with a cry of love and pain in one, she flung herself on her knees beside him, and enfolded him in her arms. "Michael," she said, "my love, my darling, my dear kind husband, forgive me, and let me confess everything. It is true that I was to have married Jason, but it is not true that I loved him. I esteemed him, for he is of a manly, noble soul, and after the departure of my father and the death of my mother, and amid the cruelties of my brothers and your own long, long silence, I thought to reward him for his great fidelity. But I loved you, you only, only you, dear Michael, and when your letter reached me at last I asked him to release me that I might come to you, and he did so, and I came. This is the truth, dear Michael, as sure as we shall meet before God some day."
Michael Sunlocks lifted his face and said, "Why did you not tell me this long ago, Greeba, and not now when it is dragged from you?"
She did not answer him, for to be met with such a question after a plea so abject, stung her to the quick. "Do you not believe I've told you the truth?" she asked.
"God knows; I know not what to believe," he answered.
"Do you rather trust my brothers, who have deceived you?" she said.
"So, heaven help me! has my wife, whom I have loved so dear."
At that she drew herself up. "Michael," she said, "what lie have these men told you? Don't keep it from me. What have I done?"