He was touched and grateful, but beneath his
gratitude there still lurked the demon of unrest. She had not
come--the one being for whom he waited--she had sent no word. He knew
that her mother lay dying--above all things he knew that on the great
day of the attack she had stood resolutely between him and death--but
nothing, no explanation or assurance, calmed the hidden trouble of his
mind. After all, it had been pity--or remorse--not love.
Thus three weeks passed. The Colonel had spent the day with him
discussing the future, arranging for the transference of Lois' fortune
into his unwilling hands, and now, toward nightfall, he was once more
alone, wearied in body and soul. For the first time since his
surrender his sense of quiet and release from an immense burden was
gone. He was still alone. He felt now that he would always be alone,
for there was but one who could fill the blank in his life. And she
had not come. He did not and could not blame her. Who was he that a
woman should join her lot to his? An Englishman truly, but one over
whose birth and youth there hung a shadow, perhaps a curse such as had
darkened his mother's life and the life of all those in whose veins
there flows an alien blood. She must not even think that any link from
the past bound her. She must be free--quite free to choose. Wearily he
seated himself at his table and took his pen.
"You have been the great guiding light of my life," he wrote to her.
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