o
which past weakness gives a double sting--

"It never is too late. If the priest stood ready, and I had sworn to
marry you within the hour, I would break the oath, and God would pardon
it, for no man has a right to embrace temptation and damn himself by a
life-long lie. You choose to make it a hard battle for me; you are
neither an honest friend nor a generous foe. No matter, I have fallen
into an ambuscade and must cut my way out as I can, and as I will, for
there is enough of this Devil's work in the world without our adding to
it."

"You cannot escape with honor, Adam."

"I cannot remain with honor. Do not try me too hardly, Ottila. I am not
patient, but I do desire to be just. I confess my weakness; will not
that satisfy you? Blazon your wrong as you esteem it; ask sympathy of
those who see not as I see; reproach, defy, lament. I will bear it all,
will make any other sacrifice as an atonement, but I will 'hold fast
mine integrity' and obey a higher law than your world recognizes, both
for your sake and my own."

She watched him as he spoke, and to herself confessed a slavery more
absolute than any he had known, for with a pang she felt that she had
indeed fallen into the snare she spread for him, and in this man, who
dared to own his weakness and her power, she had found a master. Was it
too late to keep him? She knew that soft appeals were vain, tears like
water on a rock, and with the skill that had subdued him once she
endeavored to retrieve her blunder by an equanimity which had more
effect than prayers or protestations. Warwick had read her well, had
shown her herself stripped of all disguises, and left her no defence but
tardy candor. She had the wisdom to see this, the wit to use it and
restore the shadow of the power whose substance she had lost. Leaving
her beauty to its silent work, she fixed on him eyes whose lustre was
quenched in unshed tears, and said with an earnest, humble voice--

"I, too, desire to be just. I will not reproach, defy, or lament, but
leave my fate to you. I am all you say, yet in your judgment remember
mercy, and believe that at twenty-five there is still hope for the noble
but neglected nature, still time to repair the faults of birth,
education, and orphanhood. You say, I have a daring will, a love of
conquest. Can I not will to overcome myself and do it? Can I not learn
to be the woman I have seemed? Love has worked greater miracles, may it
not work this? I have longed to