Whenever I would speak, that memory locked my lips, so that all I ventured upon was to quietly reach out my hand through the darkness, and touch hers.

Yet that was enough, for I felt her fingers close on mine in silent welcome.
Yet, perhaps, I ought not to say that it was any memory of the gambler which held me dumb.

For it was not thought of the man, but rather of the woman, whose honor I felt bound to guard by closed lips.

Some instinct of my own higher nature, or some voiceless message from her personality, told me the line of safety--told me that she would secretly resent any familiarity she was not free to welcome.

She might ride through the black night beside me, our hands clasped in friendship, our hearts thrilling with hope.