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Updated: May 9, 2025
She seemed incapable of speaking. You would not have said she was frightened. You would have thought: "She has been slain." Harboro's lips were moving, but he seemed unable to speak immediately. It was Sylvia who broke the silence. "You shouldn't have tricked me, Harboro!" she said. Her voice had the mournful quality of a dove's. He seemed bewildered anew by that.
Runyon had not ceased to regard him alertly with an expression which can be described only as one of infinite distaste with the acute discomfort of an irrepressible creature who shrinks from serious things. "I am not," he said, as if his integrity were being unwarrantably questioned. Harboro's voice had been strained like that of a man who is dying of thirst.
Only by the fraction of a second was the finger on the trigger stayed. It was not Fectnor who appeared. Dunwoodie stepped into sight casually and looked in Harboro's direction. The expression of amused curiosity in his eyes swiftly gave place to almost comical amazement when he took in that spasmodic movement of Harboro's. "What's up?" he inquired. He approached Harboro leisurely.
But you ... you were the hearth for me to sit down before at night, a wall to keep the wind away. What was it you said once about a man and woman becoming one? You have been my very body to me, Harboro; and any other could only have been a friendly wind to stir me for a moment and then pass on." Harboro's face darkened. "I was the favorite lover," he said.
"I'll not lose the way," he declared; though there remained in his mind a slight dubiousness on this point. The moon would be down before the ride was finished, and there were not a few roads leading away from the main thoroughfare. Then, much to Harboro's surprise, Runyon appeared, riding away from the corral on his beautiful dun horse.
That had happened a good many months ago; and Sylvia remembered now, with a feeling as of an icy hand on her heart, that if her relationships with many of the others in those old days were innocent enough or at best marred only by a kindly folly there had been that in her encounters with Fectnor which would forever damn her in Harboro's eyes, if the truth ever reached him.
She sobbed her strength away on Harboro's breast. And when the sun arose she looked into her husband's gravely steadfast eyes, and knew that she must tell the truth. She knew that there was nothing else for her to do. She spared her father, inventing little falsehoods on his behalf; herself she spared, confessing no fault of her own.
And following the increased assurances of her safety in Harboro's house and heart, she began to give rein to some of the coquetries of her nature. She became an innocent siren, studying ways of bewitchment, of endearment. She became a bewildering revelation to him, amazing him, delighting him.
It was as if his joy at seeing Sylvia had been that which we experience in the face of a beautiful illusion; and now, seeing Harboro, it was as if he stood in the presence of a cherished reality. He grasped Harboro's hand and dragged him down from the step. "Old Harboro!" he exclaimed.
You couldn't really do anything to destroy their faith, even when they pretended to be rather rough and wicked. I wasn't that kind of a bad woman, at least." Harboro's brow had become furrowed, with impatience, seemingly. "But your marriage to me, Sylvia?" He put the question accusingly. "I thought you knew at first. I thought you must know. There are men who will marry the kind of woman I was.
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