"Damaris!" said I, starting.
"Often after this they used to meet by a corner of the old park wall where he had made a place to go up and down by--for six months, I think, they played together daily, and once he fought a great, rough boy on her behalf, and when the boy had run away she bathed her champion's hurts in a little brook--bathed them with her scarf as thus I do yours. At last she was sent away to a school and the years passed, but she never forgot the name of Martin, though he forgot her quite ... but ... you ... you remember now, Martin--O, you remember now?" says she with a great sob.
"Aye, I remember now!" quoth I, hoarsely.
"It is for the sake of this boy, Martin, so brave, so strong, yet so very gentle and kindly--for him and all he might have been that I pray you forego your vengeance--I beseech you to here renounce it--"
"Never!" I cried, clenching my shackled hands. "But for my enemy this boy might now be as other men--'stead of outcast rogue and scarred galley-slave, he might have come to love and win love--to have known the joy of life and its fulness! Howbeit he must go his way, rogue and outcast to the end."
"No!" she cried, "No! The wrong may be undone--must--shall be--wounds will heal and even scars will fade with time."
"Scars of the body, aye--belike!" said I, "But there be scars of the mind, wounds of the soul shall never heal--so shall my just vengeance sleep not nor die whiles I have life!"
Here for awhile she was silent again and I saw a tear fall sparkling.
"And yet," said she at last and never stirring from her humble posture, "and yet I have faith in you still for, despite all your cruel wrongs and grievous suffering, you are so--young, headstrong and wilful and very desolate and forlorn. Thus whiles I have life my faith in you shall sleep not nor die, yet greatly do I pity--"
"Pity?" says I fiercely, "You were wiser to hate and see me hanged out of hand."
"Poor soul!" she sighed, and rising, laid one white hand upon my shackled fist. "And yet mayhap you shall one day find again your sweet and long-lost youth--meanwhile strive to be worthy a sorrowing maid's honest pity."
"Pity?" says I again, "'Tis akin to love--so give me hate, 'tis thing most natural 'twixt your blood and mine."
"Poor soul!" she repeated, viewing me with her great, calm eyes albeit their lashes were wet with tears, "How may I hate one so wretched?" Here, seeing mayhap how the words stung me she must needs repeat them: "Poor wretched soul, thou'rt far--far beneath my hate."