"He was fighting his own son--and he knew it!" The words came in broken
accents.
"He was fighting his own son, and he knew it! You mean to say that!"
Horror was in her voice.
"I mean that the summer before I was born--"
He told her the story as his mother had told it to him. Then at last he
said:
"And now you know Barode Barouche got what he deserved. He ruined my
mother's life; he died the easiest death such a man could die. He has
also spoiled my life."
"Nothing can spoil your life except yourself," she declared firmly, and
she laid a hand upon his arm. "Who told you all this--and when?"
"My mother in a letter last night. I had a talk with her afterwards."
"Who else knows?"
"Only you."
"And why did you tell me?"
"Because I want you to know why our ways must for ever lie apart."
"I don't grasp what you mean," she declared in a low voice.
"You don't grasp why, loving you, I didn't ask you to marry me long ago;
but you found out for yourself from the one who was responsible, and
freed me and saved me; and now you know I am an illegitimate son."
"And you want to cut me out of your life for a bad man's crime, not your
own. . . . Listen, Carnac. Last night I told Mr.
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