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“You were–already married–when–you loved me,” she said, her face showing misery and shame.

He smiled a little bitterly when he saw the effect of his words, but said clearly: “Yes. You see I was a villain.”

She shuddered a little, and then said simply: “Your face was not the face of a bad man. Are you telling me the truth?”

He nodded.

“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.

She suddenly gave a cry of shame and agony, a low trembling cry, as though her heart-strings were being dragged out. She drew back from him–back to the middle of the room.

He came towards her, reaching out his arms. “Forgive me,” he said.

“Oh, no, never!” she cried with horror.

The cry had been heard outside, and Houghton entered the room, to find his wife, all her strength gone, turning a face of horror upon Cayley. She stretched out her arms to her husband with a pitiful cry. “Tom,” she said, “Tom, take me away.”

He took her gently in his arms.

Cayley stood with his hand upon his horse’s neck. “Houghton,” he said in a low voice, “I have been telling your wife what I was, and who I am. She is shocked. I had better go.”

The woman’s head had dropped on her husband’s shoulder. Houghton waited to see if she would look up. But she did not.

“Well, good-bye to you both,” Cayley said, stepped through the window, and vaulted on his horse’s back. “I’m going to see if the devil’s as black as he’s painted.” Then, setting spurs to his horse, he galloped away through the palms to the gate.

………………….

A year later Hyland the bushranger was shot in a struggle with the mounted police sent to capture him.

The planter’s wife read of it in England, whither she had gone on a visit.

“It is better so,” she said to herself, calmly. “And he wished it, I am sure.”

For now she knew the whole truth, and she did not love her husband less–but more.