"I must go, sweet," he said.
"God help me!" she moaned, and clung to him still. "It is I who am killing you--I and your love for me. For it was to save me you rode hither to-night, never pausing to weigh your own deadly danger. Oh, I am punished for having listened to every voice but the voice of my own heart where you were concerned. Had I loved you earlier--had I owned it earlier..."
"It had still been too late," he said, more to comfort her than because he knew it to be so. "Be brave for my sake, Ruth. You can be brave, I know--so well. Listen, sweet. Your words have made me happy. Mar not this happiness of mine by sending me out in grief at your grief."
Her response to his prayer was brave, indeed. Through her tears came a faint smile to overspread her face so white and pitiful.
"We shall meet soon again," she said.
"Aye--think on that," he bade her, and pressed her to him. "Good-bye, sweet! God keep you till we meet!" he added, his voice infinitely tender.
"Mr. Wilding!" Wentworth's voice called him, and the captain thrust the door open a foot or so. "Mr. Wilding!"
"I am coming," he answered steadily. He kissed her again, and on that kiss of his she sank against him, and he felt her turn all limp. He raised his voice. "Richard!" he shouted wildly. "Richard!"
At the note of alarm in his voice, Wentworth flung wide the door and entered, Richard's ashen face showing over his shoulder. In her brother's care Wilding delivered his mercifully unconscious wife. "See to her, Dick," he said, and turned to go, mistrusting himself now. But he paused as he reached the door, Wentworth waxing more and more impatient at his elbow. He turned again.
"Dick," he said, "we might have been better friends. I would we had been. Let us part so at least," and he held out his hand, smiling.
Before so much gallantry Richard was conquered almost to the point of worship; a weak man himself, there was no virtue he could more admire than strength. He left Ruth in the high-backed chair in which Wilding's tender hands had placed her, and sprang forward, tears in his eyes. He wrung Wilding's hands in wordless passion.
"Be good to her, Dick," said Wilding, and went out with Wentworth.
He was marched down the street in the centre of that small party of musketeers of Dunbarton's regiment, his thoughts all behind him rather than ahead, a smile on his lips. He had conquered at the last. He thought of that other parting of theirs, nearly a month ago, on the road by Walford. Now, as then, circumstance was the fire that had melted her. But the crucible was no longer--as then of pity; it was the crucible of love.