She flung out her arms wildly, clasping his feet.

He stooped lower over her. "Hush--hush!" he said.

She did not seem to hear. "I let you take me--I stained your honour--I
wasn't a free woman. I tried to think I was; but in my heart--I always
knew--I always knew! I wouldn't have your love at first--because I knew.
And I came to you--that monsoon night--chiefly because--I wanted--when
he came after me--as I knew he would come--to force him--to set
me--free."

Through bitter sobbing the confession came; in bitter sobbing it ended.

But still Merryon's hand was on her head, still his face was bent above
her, grave and sad and pitiful, the face of a strong man enduring grief.

After a little, haltingly, she spoke again. "And I wasn't coming back to
you--ever. Only--someone--a _syce_--told me you had been stricken down.
And then I had to come. I couldn't leave you to die. That's all--that's
all! I'm going now. And I shan't come back. I'm not--your wife. You're
quite, quite free. And I'll never--bring shame on you--again."

Her straining hands tightened. She kissed, the feet she clasped. "I'm a
wicked, wicked woman," she said. "I was born--on the wrong side--of the
safety-curtain. That's no--excuse; only--to make you understand."

She would have withdrawn herself then, but his hands held her. She
covered her face, kneeling between them.