"Then you were wicked with me," she said at last, with a great sigh,
looking him straight in the eyes. "But you--you loved me?" she said
with injured pride and a piteous appeal in her voice. "Ah, I know you
loved me!"

"I will tell you when you know all," he answered evenly.

"Is there more to tell?" she asked heavily, and shrinking from him now.

"Much more. Please, come here." He went towards the open window of the
room, and she followed. He pointed out to where his horse stood in the
palms.

"That is my horse," he said. He whistled to the horse, which pricked up
its ears and trotted over to the window. "The name of my horse," he
said, "maybe familiar to you. He is called Firefoot."

"Firefoot!" she answered dazedly, "that is the name of Hyland's horse--
Hyland the bushranger."

"This is Hyland's horse," he said, and he patted the animal's neck gently
as it thrust its head within the window.

"But you said it was your horse," she rejoined slowly, as though the
thing perplexed her sorely.

"It is Hyland's horse; it is my horse," he urged without looking at her.
His courage well-nigh failed him. Villain as he was, he loved her, and
he saw the foundations of her love for him crumbling away before him. In
all his criminal adventures he had cherished this one thing.