He was homesick and this fair land of liberty had a
rotten core. I struck him down and fled. You will heal and fight the
Voice--"
Mic-co bent and raised the groveling figure.
"Peace!" he said, his face very white. "We will heal and quiet the
Voice forever. Come!" Gently he led the sick man away.
"He will sleep now, I think," he said a little later. "A drug is best
when a Voice is mocking?--"
The Baron leaned forward and caught Mic-co's arm in a grasp of iron.
"Who are you," he whispered, "that you suffer with him now? You are
white and shaking. Who are you that you know the tongue of my country?"
Mic-co sighed.
"I," said he sadly, "am that man he thought to kill!"
White-faced, the Baron stared at the snowy beard and hair and the fine,
dark eyes.
"Theodomir!" he whispered brokenly. "Theodomir! It--it can not be."
He fell to pacing the floor in violent agitation.
"The eyes are quieter," he said at length with an effort, "but the hair
and heard so white! I would not have guessed--I would not have
guessed!" Again he stared.
"Are you man or saint," he cried at last, "that you can forgive as I
have seen your eyes forgive to-night?"
"May a man look upon such remorse as that," asked Mic-co, "and not
forgive? I loved him greatly.
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