He had sent to her, so
that she might destroy it, the letter that would have put her case out
of court. If he had wanted a revenge for her bitter words the American
had it now. He had repaid her scorn and contempt with magnanimity. He
had heaped coals of fire upon her head, had humiliated her by proving
that he was more generous of spirit than she.
Valencia paced the floor of her library in a stress of emotion. It was
not her pride alone that had been touched, but the fine instincts of
justice and fair play and good will. She had outraged hospitality and
sent him packing. She had let him take the long tramp in spite of his
bad knee. Her dependents had attempted to murder him. Her best friend
had tried to fasten a duel upon him. All over the valley his name had
been bandied about as that of one in league with the devil. As an answer
to all this outrage that had been heaped upon him he refused to take
advantage of this chance-found letter of Bartolome merely because it was
her letter and not his. Her heart was bowed down with shame and yet was
lifted in a warm glow of appreciation of his quality. Something in her
blood sang with gladness. She had known all along that the hateful
things she had said to him could not be true. He was her enemy, but--the
brave spirit of her went out in a rush to thank God for this proof of
his decency.
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