The thing that hurt was the fact that he himself had juggled the cards
of fate to this sorry dealing.
The sudden rage concerning De Courtenay had spent itself. There
remained only the deep anger of the man who has lost in the game of
love. And yet, what right had he to cherish even this wholesome anger
against his rival when the maid had chosen of her own free will? As
well hold grudge to the great Power whose wisdom had given the man such
marvellous beauty. As he lay in the darkness listening to the unearthly
noises he worked it all out with justice.
He alone was to blame for the sorry state of things.
De Courtenay was but a man, and what man, looking upon Maren Le Moyne,
could fail to love her?
Therefore, he freed his rival of all blame.
And Maren,--oh, blameless as the winds of heaven was Maren!
What had she given him that he could construe as love?
Only a look, a blush to her cheek, the touch of a warm hand.
In his folly he had hailed himself king of her affections when
perchance it was but the kindliness of her womanly heart.
And what maid could be blind to De Courtenay's sparkling grace,--
compared to which he was himself a blundering yokel?
Thus in bound darkness he reasoned it all out and strove to wash away
the anger from his heart.
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