His voice broke in one agonized sob. He had put all his heart, all his feelings into that passionate appeal. He did not believe that he had done wrong, he had not on his soul the sense of the brand of Cain. Rough, untutored, a son of the soil, he saw no harm in sweeping out of the way a noisome creature who spreads evil and misery. And Elsa's was also a simple and untutored soul, even though in her calmer temperament the wilder passions of men had found no echo. True and steadfast in love, her mind was too simple to grasp at sophistry, to argue about right or wrong; her feelings were her guide, and even while Andor--burning with love and impatience--argued and clung desperately to his own point of view, she felt only the desire to comfort and to succour--above all, to love--she was just a girl--Andor's sweetheart and not his judge. God alone was that! God would punish if He so desired--indeed, He had punished already, for never had such sorrow descended in Andor's heart before, of that she felt quite sure.
He became quite calm after awhile. Even his passion seemed to have died down under the weight of this immense sorrow.
And the peace which comes from the plains when they are wrapped in the darkness of the night descended on the humble peasant-girl's soul; she saw things as they really were, not as men's turbulent desires would have them be--above all, not as a woman's idealism would picture them.
She no longer had the desire to run away--and if the distant, unknown land was to wrap and enfold her out of the ken of this real, cruel world, then it should enfold her and Andor together, and her love would wrap him and comfort him too.
So now--when he had finished speaking, when his fervent appeal to God and to her had died down on his quivering lips--she came close up to him and placed her small, cool hand upon his arm.
"Andor," she said gently; and her voice shook and was almost undistinguishable from the sweet, soft sounds that filled the limitless plain. "I am only an ignorant peasant-girl--you and I are only like children, of course, beside the clever people who can argue about such things. But this I do know, that there is no sin in the world so great but it can be blotted out and forgiven. You may have done a big, big, wrong, Andor--or perhaps you are not much to blame . . . I don't know how that is . . . Pater Bonifácius will tell you, no doubt, when next you make your confession to him. . . . But I am too ignorant to understand . . . the plains have taught me all I know . . . and . . . and . . . I shall always love you, Andor . . . and not judge what you have done. . . . God will do that. . . . I can only love you. . . . That is all!"