Max drew up a chair, and sat down beside his _protégé_. For nearly three

weeks now Bertrand had been with him. A post-card written from a squalid

back-street lodging had been his first intimation that the Frenchman was

in London, and within two hours of receiving it Max had removed him to

the private nursing-home in which he himself was at that time domiciled.

For, notwithstanding his youth, Max Wyndham was a privileged person, and

owned as his greatest friend one of the most distinguished physicians in

London.

His natural brilliance had brought him in the first place to the great

man's notice; and though he was but a medical student, his foot was

already firmly planted upon the ladder of success. There was little doubt

that one day--and that probably not many years distant--Max Wyndham would

be a great man too. Even as it was, his grip upon all things that

concerned the profession he had chosen was so prodigious that his patron

would upon occasion consult with him as an equal, detecting in him that

flare of genius which in itself is of more value than years of

accumulated knowledge. He had the gift of magnetism to an extraordinary

degree, and he coupled with it an unerring instinct upon which he was not

afraid to rely. Equipped thus, he was bound to come to the front, though

whether the Wyndham blood in him would suffer him to stay there was a

proposition that time alone could solve.

His effect upon Bertrand was little short of magical. Sitting there

beside him with the wasted wrist between his fingers, and his green eyes

gazing at nothing in particular, there was little about him to indicate a

remarkable personality. Yet the drawn look passed wholly away from the

sick man's face, and he leaned back among his pillows with a restfulness

that he had been very far from feeling a few seconds earlier.

"So you are reading all about the Rodolphe _affaire_," Max said

presently.

"It is Mr. Mordaunt's own report," Bertrand explained. "It interests

me--that. I feel as if I heard him speak."

Max grunted. He had asked no question as to the circumstances that had

led to Bertrand's departure, and Bertrand had volunteered no information.

It had been a closed subject between them by mutual consent. But to-night

for some reason Max approached it, warily, as one not sure of his ground.

"When do you hope to see him again?"

A slight flush rose in Bertrand's face. "Never--it is probable," he said

sadly.

"Ah! Then you had a disagreement?"

Bertrand looked at him questioningly.

Max smiled a little. "No, it isn't vulgar curiosity. Fact is, I came

across my cousin Jack Forest to-day. You remember Jack Forest? I've been

dining with him at his club. We hadn't met for ages, and naturally we had

a good deal to say to one another."

He paused, gently relinquishing his hold upon Bertrand's wrist, and

got up to pour something out of a bottle on the mantelpiece into a

medicine-glass.

"Drink this, old chap," he said, "or I shall tire you out before I've

done."

"You have something to say to me?" Bertrand said quickly.

Max nodded. "I have. Drink first, and then I will tell you. That's the

way. You needn't be in a hurry. You were going to tell me about that

disagreement, weren't you? At least, I think you were. You have been rash

enough to trust me before."

"But naturally," Bertrand said. He handed the glass back with a courteous

gesture of thanks. "And I have not had cause to regret it. I will tell

you why I disagreed with Mr. Mordaunt if you desire to know. It was

because he found that he had been robbed, and that I"--he spread out

his hands--"was the robber."

Max stared. "Found that you had robbed him! You!"

Bertrand nodded several times, but said no more.

"I don't believe it," Max said with conviction.

Bertrand smiled rather ruefully. "No? But yet the evidence was against

me. And me, I did not contradict the evidence."

"I see. You were shielding someone. Who was it? Rupert?"

At Bertrand's quick start Max also smiled with grim humour. "You see, I

know my own people rather well. I'm glad it wasn't Chris, anyway. Then

she had nothing at all to do with your quarrel with Trevor?"

"Nothing," Bertrand said--"nothing." He paused a moment, then added, with

something of an effort, "But I had decided that I would go before that.

Mr. Mordaunt did not know why."

"Because of Chris?" There was a touch of sharpness in Max's voice.

Bertrand bent his head. "You were right that night. A man cannot hope to

hide his heart for ever from the woman whom he loves."

"You told her, then?"

"It arrived without telling," Bertrand answered with simplicity.

"That means she cares for you?" Max said shrewdly.

Bertrand looked up. "_Mais c'est passé_," he said, his voice very low.

"You have guessed the truth, but you only know it. Her husband--"

"My dear fellow, that's just the mischief. He knows it too," Max said.

"He!" Bertrand started upright.

Instantly Max's hand was upon him, checking him. "Keep still, Bertrand!

You can't afford to waste your strength. Yes, Trevor knows. He knew on

the very day you left. He found out that that blackguard Rodolphe had

been blackmailing her. He had a scene with Chris, and she left him."

"Rodolphe! _Le canaille! Est-ce possible? Alors_, she is not--not with

him--at Valpré--as I thought?" gasped Bertrand.

"No. She has not been near him since. I knew nothing of this till to-day.

She hardly ever writes. I thought--as you did--that she had gone to

France with Trevor. Instead of that, Jack tells me, she has been with his

sister in Yorkshire all this time. She has been ill, is so still, I

believe. They are coming to town to-morrow, to Percy Davenant's flat.

Jack is very worried about it. He saw Trevor before he left England, but

couldn't get him to listen to reason. He seems to have made up his mind

to have no more to do with her, while she is fretting herself to a

skeleton over it, but daren't make the first move towards a

reconciliation. It probably wouldn't do any good if she did. He is as

hard as iron. And if his mind is once made up--" Max left the sentence

unfinished, and continued: "I think I shall go to Valpré and see what I

can do. This has gone on long enough, and we can't have Chris making

herself ill. I should think even he would see the force of that. This

trial business will be over in a few days, and if I don't catch him he

may go wandering, Heaven knows where. But it won't do. He must come back

to her. I shall tell him so."

But at that Bertrand laid a nervous hand upon his arm. "My friend," he

said, "you will not persuade him."

Max looked at him, and was confronted by eyes of gleaming resolution. "I

believe I shall," he said. "I can persuade most people."

"You will not persuade him," Bertrand repeated. "That _scélérat_ has

poisoned his mind. Moreover, you do not even know what passed between

us."

"I don't need to know," Max said curtly.

Bertrand began to smile. "And you think you can plead your sister's cause

without knowing, _hein_? No, no! the affair is too much advanced. There

is only one man who can help the little Christine now. He would not

listen to you, _mon cher_, if you went. But--to me, he will listen, even

though he believes me to be a thief; for he is very just. I know that I

can make him understand. And for that I shall go to him to-morrow. As you

say, we cannot let _la petite_ fret."

He spoke quite quietly, but his eyes were shining with a fire that had

not lit them for many a day.

"My dear chap, you can't go. You're not fit for it." Max spoke with quick

decision. "I won't let you go, so there's an end of it."

But Bertrand laughed. "So? But I am more fit than you think, _mon ami_.

Also it is my affair, this, and none but I can accomplish it. See, I

start in the morning, and by this hour to-morrow I shall be with him."

"Folly! Madness!" Max said.

But indomitable resolution still shone in the Frenchman's eyes. "Listen

to me, Max," he said. "If I spend my last breath thus, why not? I have

not the least desire to cling to life. And is that madness? I love _la

petite_ more than all. And is that folly? Why should I not give the

strength that is still in me to accomplish the desire of my heart? Is

mortal life so precious to those who have nothing for which to live?"

"Rot!" Max said fiercely. "You have plenty to live for. When this

scoundrel Rodolphe is disposed of they will be reinstating you. You've

got to live to have your honour vindicated. Does that mean nothing to

you?"

Bertrand shrugged his shoulders. "It would interest me exactly as the

procession under the windows interests those who watch. The procession

passes, and the street is empty again. What is that to me?" He snapped

his fingers carelessly. But the animation of his face had transformed it

completely, giving him a look of youth with which Max was wholly

unfamiliar. "See!" he said. "_Le bon Dieu_ has given me this thing to do,

and He will give me the strength to do it. That is His way, _mon ami_. He

does not command us to make bricks without straw."

Max grunted. "Whatever you do, you will have to pay for," he observed

dryly. "And how are you going to get to Valpré without being arrested?"

"But I will disguise myself. That should be easy." Bertrand laughed

again, and suddenly stretched out his arms and rose. "I am well," he

declared. "I have been given the strength, and I will use it. Have no

fear, Max. It will not fail me."

"I shall go too, then," Max said abruptly. "Sit down, man, and be

rational. You don't suppose I shall let you tear all over France in your

present condition by yourself, do you? If you excite yourself in this

fashion, you will be having that infernal pain again. Sit down, I tell

you!"

Bertrand sat down, but as if he moved on wires. "No," he said with

confidence, "I shall not suffer any more to-night. You say that you will

go with me? But indeed it is not necessary. And you have your work to do.

I would not have you leave it on my account."

"I am coming," Max said, with finality, "And look here, Bertrand, I shall

be in command of this expedition, and we are not going to travel at

break-neck speed. You will not reach Valpré till the day after to-morrow.

That is understood, is it?"

Bertrand hesitated and looked dubious.

"Come, man, it's for your own good. You don't want to die before you get

there." Max's tone was severely practical.

"Ah no! Not that! I must not fail, Max. I must not fail." Bertrand spoke

with great earnestness. He laid an impressive hand on his companion's

arm. For a moment his face betrayed emotion. "I cannot--I will not--die

before her happiness is assured. It is that for which I now live, for

which I am ready to give my life. Max--_mon ami_--you will not let me die

before--my work--is done!"

He spoke pantingly, as though speech had become an effort. The strain was

beginning to tell upon him. But his eyes pleaded for him with a dumb

intensity hard to meet.

Max took his wrist once more into his steady grasp. "If you will do as I

tell you," he said, "I will see that you don't. Is that a bargain?"

A faint smile shone in the dark eyes at the peremptoriness of his speech.

"But how you are despotic--you English!" protested the soft voice.

"Do you agree to that?" insisted Max.

"_Mais oui_. I submit myself--always--to you English. How can one--do

other?"

"Then don't talk any more," said Max, with authority. "There's no time

for drivel, so save your breath. You will want it when you get to

Valpré."

"Ah, Valpré!" whispered Bertrand very softly as one utters a beloved

name; and again more softly, "Valpré!"

CHAPTER V

THE STRANGER

A long wave broke with a splash and spread up the sand in a broad band of

silver foam. The tide was at its lowest, and the black rocks of Valpré

stood up stark and grotesque in the evening light. The Gothic archway of

the Magic Cave yawned mysteriously in the face of the cliff, and over it,

with shrill wailings, flew countless seagulls, flashing their wings in

the sunset.

The man who walked alone along the shore was too deeply engrossed in

thought to take much note of his surroundings, although more than once he

turned his eyes towards the darkness of the cave. A belt of rocks

stretched between, covered with slimy, green seaweed. It was evident that

he had no intention of crossing this to explore the mysteries beyond.

Just out of reach of the sea he moved, his hands behind him and his head

bent.

All through the day he had been pent in a stuffy courtroom, closely

following the evidence that, like a net of strong weaving, was gradually

closing around the prisoner Guillaume Rodolphe. All France was seething

over the trial. All Europe watched with vivid interest.

Another man's name had begun to be uttered on all sides, in court and out

of it, coupled continuously with the name of the man who was standing his

trial. Bertrand de Montville, where was he? All France would soon be

waiting to do him justice, to pay him high honour, to compensate him for

the indignities he had wrongfully suffered. He would have to face another

court-martial, it was true; but the outcome of that would be a foregone

conclusion, and his acquittal would raise him to a pinnacle of popularity

to which he had surely never aspired, even in the days when ambition had

been the ruling passion of his life.

Undoubtedly he would be the hero of the hour, if he could be found. But

where was he? Everyone was asking the question. None knew the answer.

Some said he was in England, awaiting the turn of events, abiding his

opportunity; others that he was already in France, lying hidden in Paris,

or even risking arrest at Valpré itself. The police were uniformly

reticent upon the subject, but it was generally believed that there would

be small difficulty in finding him when the moment arrived. Some went so

far as to assert that he had actually been arrested, and was being kept a

close prisoner by the authorities, who were plainly in fear of serious

rioting. Whatever the truth of the matter, the fact remained that the

tide of public opinion had set very strongly in his favour, and was

likely to wax to a tumultuous enthusiasm exceedingly difficult to cope

with when the object thereof should present himself.

With all of this Trevor Mordaunt was well acquainted; but he, on his

part, was firmly convinced that Bertrand would keep away until he himself

had left France. To come to Valpré now would be to court a meeting with

him, and this, he was convinced, Bertrand would do his utmost to avoid.

The break between them had been quite final. Moreover, he probably

believed that Chris was at Valpré also, and he had apparently determined

not to see her again. But here an evil thought forced its way. Might they

not, quite possibly, be in communication with one another? It had

presented itself many times before, that thought, and he had sought to

put it from him. But to-night it would not be denied. It conquered and

possessed him. Was it at all likely that the parting between them had

been final?

Only that afternoon evidence had been given of the episode that had led

to the duel on the Valpré sands more than four years before. He had

listened with a set face to the account of the insult and the subsequent

challenge, and though no name had been mentioned, he had known and faced

the fact that the woman in the case had been his wife. Even then,

Bertrand had regarded her as his peculiar charge, as under his exclusive

protection. And she--had she not told him with burning unrestraint that

she had always loved this man, would love him till she died?

With the gesture of one who relinquishes his hold upon something he has

discovered to be valueless, Trevor Mordaunt turned in his tracks and

began to walk back over the long stretch of sand. He looked no longer in

the direction of the Magic Cave, but rather quickened his steps as though

he desired to leave it far behind. But there was no escaping that

all-mastering suspicion. It went with him, closely locked with his own

spirit, and he could not shake it off.

Back to his hotel he walked, with no glance at sea or shining

sunset, and went straight to his own room. There was a private

sitting-room adjoining, which he was wont to share with some of his

fellow-journalists. They used it as a club writing-room when the

proceedings of the court-martial were over for the day. He had his notes

in his pocket; his report was not yet written. He remembered that he must

catch the midnight mail, and decided that he would not stop to dress.

That day's sitting had been longer than usual, and his walk along the

shore had made him late.

He passed straight through his bedroom, therefore, and into the

sitting-room that overlooked the sea. A small, round-backed man, with a

shag of black hair upon his face, was sitting by the window. There were

three other men in the room, all writing busily. All, save the man by the

window, glanced up at Mordaunt's entrance and nodded to him. They were

all English, with the exception of the stranger, who was obviously

French.

Mordaunt looked at him questioningly, but no one volunteered an

explanation. He had evidently been sitting there for some time. His gaze

was fixed upon the darkening sea. It was plain that he had no desire to

court attention.

Quietly Mordaunt crossed the room to him. He was crouched like a monkey,

his chin on his hand, and made no movement at his approach.

Mordaunt reached him, and bent a little. "_Est-ce que vous attendez

quelqu'un, monsieur_?"

Dark eyes flashed up at him, and sharply Mordaunt straightened himself.

"I await Mr. Mordaunt," a soft voice said.

There was an instant's pause before, "That is my name," Mordaunt said

very quietly.

"_Eh bien, monsieur_! May I speak with you--in private?"

The stranger rose shufflingly. He had the look of an old man.

"Come this way," Mordaunt said.

He re-crossed the room, his visitor hobbling in his wake. No one spoke,

but all surveyed the latter curiously, and as the door of Mordaunt's

bedroom closed upon him there was an interchange of glances and a raising

of brows.

But nothing passed behind the closed door that would have enlightened any

of them. For Mordaunt scarcely waited to be alone with the man before he

said, "I must ask you to wait some time longer if you wish to speak to

me. I am not at liberty at present."

"If I may wait here--" the stranger suggested meekly.

"Yes. You can do that. Have you dined?"

"But no, monsieur."

Mordaunt rang the bell. His face was quite immovable. He stood and waited

in silence for an answer to his summons.

Holmes came at length. He betrayed no surprise at sight of the stranger

in the room, but stood stiffly at attention, as though prepared to remove

him at his master's bidding.

"Holmes," Mordaunt said very distinctly, "this--gentleman has private

business with me, and he will wait in this room until I am able to attend

to him. Will you get him some dinner, and see that no one but yourself

comes into the room while he is here?"

"Very good, sir," said Holmes.

He looked his charge over with something of the air of a sentry taking

stock of a prisoner, and turned about.

"See that he has all that he wants," Mordaunt added.

"Very good, sir," Holmes said again, and withdrew.

Mordaunt turned at once towards the other door. "I may be a couple of

hours," he said, and passed through gravely into his sitting-room.

The trio assembled there glanced up again at his entrance with

professional curiosity, but Mordaunt's face was quite inscrutable.

Without speaking, he went to the table, took out his notebook, and began

to write. The evidence had that evening been completed, and the trial

adjourned for two days. It was his intention to write a short _résumé_ of

the whole, and this he proceeded to do with characteristic clearness of

outline. His pen moved rapidly, with unwavering decision, and for upwards

of an hour he was immersed in his task, to the exclusion of all other

considerations.

The three other men in the room completed their own reports, and went out

one by one. The hotel was full of journalists from all parts, and the

dinner-hour was always a crowded time. It was considered advisable by the

English _coterie_ to secure the meal as early as possible, but to-night

Mordaunt neglected this precaution. He did not look up when the others

left, or stir from his place until the article upon which he was engaged

was finished.

He threw down his pen at last, and leaned back to run his eye over what

he had written. It was a very brief inspection, and he made no

corrections.

Finally he shook the loose sheets together, added two or three sketches

from his notebook, thrust them into a directed envelope, and went to the

door.

Holmes came to him at once along the passage.

"Get this sealed and dispatched without delay," Mordaunt said. "The

gentleman is still waiting, I suppose?"

"Still waiting, sir," said Holmes.

"He has dined?"

"If you can call it dining, sir."

"Very well. You can go, Holmes."

But Holmes lingered a moment. "Won't you dine yourself, sir?"

"Later on. I am engaged just now. All right. Don't wait."

Holmes shook his head disapprovingly without further words, and turned to

obey.

Mordaunt closed the door and turned the key, then walked slowly across

the room to the window by which the Frenchman had sat that afternoon, and

opened it wide. The night was very dark, and through it the sea moaned

desolately. The wind was rising with the tide and blew in salt and cold,

infinitely refreshing after the stuffy heat of the day. He leaned his

head for a while against the window-frame. There was intense weariness in

his attitude.

He uttered a great sigh at last and stood up, paused a moment, as though

to pull himself together, then, with his customary precision of movement,

he turned from the open window and walked across to the door that led

into the next room. His face was somewhat paler than usual, but perfectly

composed.

Without hesitation he opened the door and spoke. "Now, Bertrand!"

CHAPTER VI

MAN TO MAN

There was a quick movement in answer to the summons, and in a moment the

visitor presented himself. He had taken the false hair from his face, and

his gait was no longer halting. He looked up at Mordaunt with sharp

anxiety as he came through.

"No one else has recognized me?" he asked.

"I believe not."

He drew a quick breath of relief. "_Bien_! It has been an affair _très

difficile_. I have feared detection _mille fois_. Yet I did not expect

you to recognize me so soon."

"You see, I happen to know you rather well," Mordaunt said.

The Frenchman spread out his hands protestingly. The excitement of the

adventure had flushed his face and kindled his eyes. He looked younger

and more ardent than Mordaunt had ever seen him. The weariness that had

so grown upon him during his exile had fallen from him like a cloak. "But

you do not know me at all!" he said.

Mordaunt passed over the remark as if he had not heard it. "What have you

come for?" he asked.

"To see you, monsieur." The reply was as direct as the question. A

momentary challenge shone in Bertrand's eyes as he made it.

But Mordaunt remained coldly unimpressed. "It was not a very wise move on

your part," he remarked. "You will be arrested if you are discovered. The

authorities are not ready for you yet. They are quite capable of

suppressing you for good and all if it suits their purpose."

"I know it. But that is of no importance after to-night." Bertrand stood

and faced him squarely. "After to-night," he said, "they may do what they

will. I shall have accomplished that which I came to do."

"And that?" said Mordaunt. He looked back into the eager eyes with the

aloofness of a stranger. His manner was too impersonal to express either

enmity or contempt.

The keenness began to die out of Bertrand's face, and a certain dignity

took its place. "That," he made answer, "is to tell you the truth in such

a fashion that, although you think that I am a thief, you will believe

it."

"I do not think that you are in a position to tell me anything that I do

not know already," Mordaunt answered quietly. "By the way, it may

interest you to hear that the affair of the cheque has been cleared up. I

wronged you there, but I do not think that I was responsible for the

wrong."

"I was responsible," Bertrand said, his voice very low. "I deceived you.

And for that you will not pardon me, no?"

But the level grey eyes looked through and beyond him. "That," Mordaunt

said, "is a matter of small importance now. Deceptions of that kind are

never excusable in my opinion; but as I do not expect you to share my

point of view, it seems scarcely worth while to discuss it."

Bertrand bowed stiffly. "It is not of that that I desire to speak.

Of myself you will think--what you will. I have merited--and I will

endure--your displeasure. But of _la petite_"--he paused--"of

Christine"--he faltered a little, and finally amended--"of _madame votre

femme_, you will think only that which is good. For that is her nature,

that. And for me," his voice throbbed with sudden passion, "I would

rather bear any insult than that you should think otherwise of her. For

she is pure and innocent as a child. Do you not see that I would sooner

die than harm her? And it has always, always been so. You believe me,

no?"

Mordaunt's face was as stone. "I shouldn't go on if I were you," he said.

"You have nothing whatever to gain. As I have told you, I know already

all that you can tell me upon this subject, and what I think of it is my

affair alone. It is a pity that you took the trouble to come here. If you

take my advice, you will leave me on the earliest opportunity."

"But you are mistaken. You do not know all." Impulsively Bertrand threw

back the words. "You cannot refuse to listen to me," he said. "I appeal

to your honour, to your sense of justice. If you knew all, as you say,

you would not leave her thus. If you believed her to be blameless--as

she is--you would not abandon her in her hour of trouble. I tell you,

monsieur"--his breath quickened suddenly and he caught his hand to his

side--"if you know the truth, you are committing a crime for which no

penalty is enough severe."

He broke off, panting, and turned towards the open window.

Mordaunt said nothing whatever. His face was set like a mask. The only

sign of feeling he gave was in the slow clenching of one hand.

After a few moments Bertrand wheeled round. "See!" he said. "I have

followed you here to tell you the truth face to face, as I shall tell

it--_bientôt_--to the good God. You shall bind me by any oath that you

will, though it should be enough for you that I have nothing at all to

gain, as you have said. I shall hide nothing from you. I shall extenuate

nothing. I shall tell you only the truth, man to man, as my heart knows

it. For her sake, you will listen, yes?"

His voice slipped into sudden pleading. He stretched out his hands

persuasively to the impassive Englishman, who still seemed to be looking

through him rather than at him. He waited for an answer, but none came.

"_Eh bien_!" he said, with a quick sigh of disappointment. "Then I shall

speak in spite of you. I begin with our meeting four years ago among the

rocks of Valpré. It was an accident by which we met. I was working to

complete my invention, and for the greater privacy I had taken it to the

old cave of the contrabandists upon the shore--a place haunted by the

spirits of the dead--so that I was safe from interruption. Or so I

thought, till one afternoon she came to me like a goddess from the sea.

She had cut her foot among the stones, and I bound it for her and carried

her back to Valpré. She was only a child then, with eyes clear as the

sunshine. She trusted herself to me as if I had been her brother. That is

easy to comprehend, is it not?"

Again he paused for an answer, but Mordaunt said no word; his lips were

firmly closed.

With a characteristic lift of the shoulders Bertrand continued.

"_Après cela_ we met again and then again. _La petite_ was lonely,

and I, I played with her. I drew for her the pictures in the sand. We

became--pals." He smiled with a touch of wistfulness over the word that

his English friend had taught him. "We shared our secrets. Once--she

was bathing"--his voice softened imperceptibly--"and I took her into my

boat and rowed her back. It was then that I knew first that I loved her.

Yet we remained comrades. I spoke to her no word of love. She was too

young, and I had nothing to offer. I said to myself that I would win her

when I had won my reputation, and in the meantime I would be patient. It

was not very difficult, for she did not understand. And then one day we

went to explore my cavern--she called it the Magic Cave, of which she was

the princess and I her _preux chevalier_. We were as children in those

days," he put in half-apologetically, "and it was her _fête_. _Bien_, we

started. _Le petit_ Cinders went with us, and almost before we had

entered he ran away. We followed him, for Christine was very anxious. I

had never been beyond the second cavern myself, and we had only one

lantern. We came to a place where the passage divided, and here we agreed

that she should wait while I went forward. I took the lantern. We could

hear him yelp in the distance, and she feared that he was hurt. So I left

her alone, and presently, hearing him, as I thought, in front of me, I

ran, and stumbled and fell. The lantern was broken and I was stunned. It

was long before I recovered, and then it was with great difficulty that I

returned. I found her awaiting me still, and Cinders with her. It was

dark and horrible, but she was too brave to run away. I heard her

singing, and so I found her. But by that time the sea had reached the

mouth of the cave, and there was no retreat. We had no choice. We were

prisoners for the night. It might have happened to anyone, monsieur. It

might have happened to you. You blame me--not yet?"

Again the note of pleading was in his voice, but Mordaunt maintained his

silence. Only his eyes were no longer sphinx-like. They were fixed

intently upon the Frenchman's face.

Bertrand went on as though he had been answered. "I kept watch all

through the night, while she slept like an infant in my arms. You would

have done the same. In the morning when the tide permitted, we laughed

over the adventure and returned to Valpré. She went to her governess and

I to the fortress. By then everybody in Valpré knew what had happened.

They had believed that we were drowned, and when we reappeared all were

astonished. Later they began to whisper, and that evening the villain

Rodolphe, being intoxicated, proposed in my presence an infamous toast. I

struck him in the mouth and knocked him down. He challenged me to a duel,

and we fought early in the morning down on the sand. But that day the

gods were not on my side. Christine and Cinders were gone to the sea to

bathe, and, as they returned, they found us fighting. _Le bon_ Cinders,

he precipitate himself between us. _La petite_ rush to stop him--too

late. Rodolphe is startled; he plunge, and my sword pierce his arm.

_C'était là un moment très difficile. La petite_ try to explain, to

apologize, and me--I lead her away. _Après cela_ she go back to England,

and I see her not again. But Rodolphe, he forgive me--never. That,

monsieur--and only that--is the true story of that which happened at

Valpré. The little Christine left--as she arrived--a pure and innocent

child."

He stopped. Mordaunt's eyes were still studying him closely. He met them

with absolute freedom.

"I will finish," he said, "and you shall then judge for yourself. As

you know, I had scarcely attained my ambition when I was ruined. It was

then that you first saw me. You believed me innocent, and later, when

Destiny threw me in your path, you befriended me. I have no need to tell

you what your friendship was to me. No words can express it or my

desolation now that I have lost it. I fear that I was never worthy of

your--so great--confidence." His voice shook a little, and he paused to

steady it. "It was my intention--always--to be worthy. The fault lay in

that I did not realize my weakness. I ought to have left you when I knew

that _la petite_ was become your fiancée."

For the first time Mordaunt broke his silence. "Why not have told me the

truth?"

Bertrand raised his shoulders. "I did not feel myself at liberty to tell

you. Afterwards, I found that her eyes had been opened, and she was

afraid for you to know. It did not seem an affair of great importance,

and I let it pass. We were pals again. She gave me her confidence, and I

would sooner have died," he spoke passionately, "than have betrayed it. I

thought that I could hide my heart from her, and that only myself would

suffer. And this I can say with truth: by no word, no look, no action, of

mine were her eyes opened. I was always _le bon frère_ to her, neither

less nor more, until the awakening came. I was always faithful to you,

monsieur. I never forgot that she belonged to you--that she was--the wife

of--my friend."

Something seemed to rise in his throat, and he stopped sharply. A moment

later very slowly he sat down.

"You permit me?" he said. "I am--a little--tired. As you know, I began to

see at last that I could not remain with you. I resolved to go. But the

death of Cinders prevented me. She was in trouble, and she desired me to

stay. I should have grieved her if I had refused. I was wrong, I admit

it. I should have gone then. I should have left her to you. I do not

defend myself. I only beg you to believe that I did not see the danger,

that if I had seen it I would not have remained for a single moment more.

Then came the day at Sandacre, the encounter with Rodolphe. I knew that

evening that something had passed between them; what it was she would not

tell me. I tried to persuade her then to let me tell you the whole truth.

But she was terrified--_la pauvre petite_. She thought that you would be

angry with her. She feared that you would ask questions that she could

not answer. She had kept the secret so long that she dared not reveal

it."

"In short," Mordaunt said, "she was afraid that I should suspect her of

caring for you."

His words were too quiet to sound brutal, but they were wholly without

mercy. Bertrand's hands gripped the arms of his chair, and he winced

visibly.

Yet he answered with absolute candour. "Yes, monsieur. I believe she was.

I believe that it was the beginning of all this trouble. But had I known

that Rodolphe would use his knowledge to extort money from her, I would

not have yielded--no, not one inch--to her importunity. I did not know

it. Christine was afraid of me also. I had fought one duel for her;

perhaps she dreaded another. And so the mischief was done."

"And who told you that she had been blackmailed?" Mordaunt demanded

curtly.

Bertrand made answer without hesitation. "I heard that two days ago from

Max."

"Max?"

"Her brother, Max Wyndham."

"And who told him?"

Bertrand's black brows went up. "I believe it was his cousin Captain

Forest."

"Ah! So he sent you, did he? I might have known he would." For the first

time Mordaunt spoke with bitterness.

"Monsieur, no one sent me." There was dignity in Bertrand's rejoinder, a

dignity that compelled belief. "I came as soon as I knew what had

happened. I came to redress a great wrong. I came to restore to you that

which is your own property--of which, in truth, you have never been

deprived. With your permission, I will finish. On the night of the

fireworks, the night you were in London, I--betrayed myself. I cannot

tell you how it happened. I know only that my love became suddenly a

flame that I could not hide. She had been in danger, and me--I lost my

self-control. The veil was withdrawn, I could hide my love no more. I

showed her my heart just as it was, and--she showed me hers."

Bertrand rose with none of his customary impetuosity and stood in front

of Mordaunt, meeting the steady eyes with equal steadiness.

"I tell you the truth," he said. "We understand each other, and we love

each other. But you--you are even now more to her than I have ever been.

She has need of you as she has never had of me. You are the reality in

her life. I"--he spread out his hands--"I am the romance."

He paused as if to gather his strength, then went rapidly on. But his

face was grey. He looked like a man who had travelled fast and far.

"Monsieur," he said very earnestly, "believe me, I do not stand between

you. I love her--I love you both--too much for that. My one desire, my

one prayer, is for her happiness--and yours. Do not, I beseech you, make

me an obstacle. You are her protector. Do not leave her unprotected!"

Again for an instant he paused, seeming to strive after self-control.

Then suddenly he relinquished the attempt. He flung his dignity from

him; he threw himself on his knees at the impassive Englishman's feet.

"Mr. Mordaunt," he cried out brokenly, "I have told you the truth. As

a dying man, I swear to you--by God--that I have hidden nothing.

Monsieur--monsieur--go back to her--make her happy--before I die!"

His voice dropped. He sank forward, murmuring incoherently.

Mordaunt stooped sharply over him. "Bertrand, for Heaven's sake--" he

began, and broke off short; for the face that still tried to look into

his was so convulsed with agony that he knew him to be for the moment

beyond the reach of words.

He lifted the huddled Frenchman to a chair with great gentleness; but the

paroxysm did not pass. It was terrible to witness. It seemed to rack him

from head to foot, and through it he still strove to plead, though his

speech was no more than broken sound, inexpressibly painful to hear,

impossible to understand.

Mordaunt bent over him at last, all his hardness merged into pity. "My

dear fellow, don't!" he said. "Give yourself time. Haven't you anything

with you that will relieve this pain?"

Bertrand could not answer him. He made a feeble gesture with his right

hand; his left was clenched and rigid.

Mordaunt began to feel in his pockets; his touch was as gentle as a

woman's. But his search was unavailing. He only found an empty bottle.

Bertrand had evidently taken the remedy it had contained earlier in the

evening.

He turned to get some brandy, but Bertrand clutched at his sleeve and

detained him. "Max is here," he gasped. "Find Max! He--knows!"

His hand fell away, and Mordaunt went to the door. Holmes had returned to

his post in the passage. He came forward as the door opened.

"Mr. Max Wyndham is somewhere here," Mordaunt said. "Go and find him, and

bring him back with you--at once."

Holmes nodded comprehension and went.

Mordaunt turned back into the room. Bertrand had slipped to the floor

again, and was lying face downwards. His breathing was anguished, but he

made no other sound.

Mordaunt poured out some brandy and went to him. He knelt down by his

side and tried to administer it. But Bertrand could not drink. He could

only gasp. Yet after a moment his hand came out gropingly and touched

the man beside him.

Mordaunt took it and held it.

"You--believe me?" Bertrand jerked out.

"I believe you," Mordaunt answered very gravely.

"You--you forgive?"

Painfully the question came. It went into silence. But the hand that had

taken Bertrand's closed slowly and very firmly.

"_Et la petite--la petite--_" faltered Bertrand.

The silence endured for seconds. It seemed as if no answer would come.

And through it the man's anguished breathing came and went with a

dreadful pumping sound as of some broken machinery.

At last, slowly, as though he weighed each word before he uttered it,

Mordaunt spoke.

"You may trust her to me," he said.

And the hand in his stirred and gripped in gratitude, Bertrand de

Montville had not spent himself in vain.

CHAPTER VII

THE MESSENGER

"Roses!" said Chris. "How nice!"

She held the white blossoms that Jack had sent her against her face, and

smiled.

It was a very pathetic smile, a wan ghost of gaiety, possessing more of

bravery than mirth. She lay on a couch by the window, looking out under

the sun-blinds at the dusty green of the park. Though October had begun,

the summer was not yet over, and the heat was considerable. It seemed

oppressive after the fresh air of the moors, and Hilda watched her

cousin's languor with some anxiety. For her face had scarcely more colour

than the flowers she held.

"Is the paper here?" asked Chris.

She also was closely following the progress of the Valpré trial. Though

she never discussed it, Hilda was aware that it was the only thing in

life in which she took any interest just then.

She gave her the paper containing the last account that Mordaunt had

written, and for nearly an hour Chris was absorbed in it. At last, with a

sigh, she laid it down, and drew the roses to her again.

"It's very dear of Jack to send them. Hilda, don't you want to go out?

You mustn't stay in always for me."

"I want you to come out too, dear," Hilda said.

"I? Oh, please, dear, I'd rather not." Chris spoke quickly, almost

beseechingly. She laid a very thin hand upon Hilda's. "You don't mind?"

she said persuasively.

Hilda took the little hand and stroked it. "Chris darling," she said, "do

you know what is the matter with you?"

The quick blood rushed up over the pale face, spread to the temples, and

then faded utterly away. "Yes," whispered Chris.

Hilda leaned down, and very tenderly kissed her. "I felt sure you did.

And that's why you will make an effort to get strong, isn't it, dear? It

isn't as if it were just for your own sake any more. You will try, my own

Chris?"

But Chris turned her face away with quivering lips. "I think--and I

hope--that I shall die," she said.

"Chris, my darling--"

"Yes," Chris insisted. "If it shocks you I can't help it. I don't want to

live, and I don't want my child to live, either. Life is too hard. If--if

I had had any choice in the matter, I would never have been born. And so

if I die before the baby comes, it is the best thing that could possibly

happen for either of us. And I think--I think"--she hesitated momentarily

before a name she had not uttered for weeks--"Trevor would say the same."

"My dear child, I am quite sure he wouldn't!" Hilda spoke with most

unaccustomed vigour. "I am quite sure that if he knew of this, he would

be with you to-day."

"Oh no, indeed!" Chris said. She spoke quite quietly, with absolute

conviction. "You don't know him, Hilda. You only judge him from outside.

If he knew--well, yes, he might possibly think it his duty to be near me.

But not because he cared. You see--he doesn't. His love is quite dead.

And"--she began to shiver--"I don't like dead things; they frighten me.

So you won't let anyone tell him; promise me!"

"But, my dear, he would love the child--his child," urged Hilda softly.

"Oh, that would be worse!" Chris turned sharply from her. "If he loved

the child--and--and--hated the mother!"

"Chris! Chris! You are torturing yourself with morbid ideas! Such a thing

would be impossible."

"Not with him," said Chris, shuddering. "He is not like Percy, you know.

You think him gentle and kind, but he is quite different, really. He is

as hard--and as cold--as iron. Ah, here is Noel!" She broke off with

obvious relief. "Come in, dear old boy. I've been wondering where you

were."

Noel came in. He usually haunted Chris's room during the day. The

Davenants had done their utmost to persuade him to go to school, but Noel

had taken the conduct of his affairs into his own hands, and firmly

refused.

"I shan't go while Chris is ill," he declared flatly. "We'll see what

she's like at the mid-term."

Jack's authority was invoked in vain, for Jack was on the youngster's

side.

"I've squared him," said Noel, with satisfaction. "Of course, I'm sorry

to be a burden to you, Hilda, but I'll pay up when I come of age."

Which promise invariably silenced Hilda's protests, and made Lord Percy

chuckle.

Aunt Philippa was still absent upon her autumn round of visits, a

circumstance for which Noel was openly and devoutly thankful. Not that

her influence was by any means paramount with him, but her presence might

of itself have been sufficient to drive him away. The only person who

could really manage him was his brother-in-law, but as he had apparently

forgotten Noel's very existence, it seemed unlikely that his authority

would be brought to bear upon him. Meanwhile, Noel swaggered in and out

of his sister's presence, penniless but content, and Chris plainly liked

to have him.

On the present occasion he interrupted their conversation without

apology, pushed Chris's feet to one side, and seated himself on the end

of the sofa.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he said to Hilda.

"Yes, I do," said Hilda.

"All right, then. You'd better go." He pulled a clay pipe out of his

pocket, and an envelope that contained tobacco. "I know Chris doesn't

mind," he said, with a twinkling glance in her direction. "Also, my

cousin, someone wants you in the next room."

"Who is it?" said Hilda.

"Don't ask me," said Noel.

She hesitated momentarily. "Well, I suppose I must go. But mind, Noel,

you are not to smoke in here."

"Say please!" said Noel imperturbably.

"Please!" said Hilda obediently.

He rose and accompanied her to the door. "Madam, your wishes shall be

respected."

He opened the door with a flourish, bowed her out, closed it, and softly

turned the key.

Then he wheeled round to his sister with gleaming eyes. "That's done the

trick, I bet. Trevor has just turned up with Jack. But you needn't be

afraid. I shan't let him in."

"What!" said Chris.

She started up, uttering the word like a cry.

Noel left the door swiftly, and came to her. "It's all right, old girl.

Don't you worry yourself. We'll hold the fort, never fear. He shan't come

in here, unless you say the word."

Chris's hands clutched him with feverish strength. Her face was deathly.

"Oh, Noel!" she breathed. "Oh, Noel!"

He hugged her reassuringly. "It's all right, I tell you. Don't get in a

blue funk for nothing. He's not coming in here to bully you."

But Chris only clung faster to him, not breathing. The sudden shock had

sent all the blood to her heart. She felt choked and powerless.

"There! Lie down again," said Noel. "I'm here. I'll take care of you. I

knew he would turn up again; it's what I've been waiting for. But I swear

he shan't come near you against your will. That's enough, isn't it? You

know you are safe with me."

She could not answer him, but she crouched back upon the sofa in response

to his persuasion. She was shaking from head to foot.

Noel sat solidly down beside her. "Don't be frightened," he said. "We're

going to have some fun."

"What--what can he have come for?" whispered Chris.

"Goodness knows! But he isn't going to get it, anyway. Good old Hilda!

She went like a bird, didn't she? I call this rather amusing."

Noel began to whistle under his breath, obviously enjoying the situation

to the utmost.

But Chris restrained him. "I want to listen," she murmured piteously.

He became silent at once, and several seconds crawled away, accompanied

by no sound save the interminable buzzing of a fly on the window-pane.

Noel arose at length and with a single swoop of the hand captured and

killed it. Then he went back to Chris.

"I say, don't look so scared! No one is going to hurt you."

The words were hardly uttered before Hilda's light step sounded outside,

and her hand tried the door.

Chris started violently, and cowered among her cushions. Noel chuckled

softly.

"Chris dear, what is the matter? Let me in!" Anxiety and persuasion were

mingled in Hilda's voice.

Noel's chuckle became audible. "She isn't going to. She doesn't want

anyone but me. Do you, Chris?"

Chris made no reply. She was staring at the door with starting eyes.

Noel went leisurely across and set his back against it. His eyes still

gleamed roguishly, but his mouth had ceased to smile.

"I say, Hilda," he said, over his shoulder, "if you want to do Chris a

good turn, tell that beastly cad behind you to go. I shan't let him in,

anyhow, not if he stays till doomsday. So he may as well clear out at

once."

"My dear Noel, how can you be so absurd?" Hilda's placid tones held real

annoyance for once.

But the cause of it was quite unimpressed.

"Your dear Noel is acting up to his lights," he returned, "and he has no

intention of doing anything else, absurd or otherwise. Chris is nearly

scared out of her wits, so you had better take my advice sharp."

This last information took instant effect upon Hilda. She turned her

attention to Chris forthwith.

"My dear, do let me in! There is nothing whatever to frighten you. I

promise you shall not be frightened. Chris, tell that absurd boy to open

the door--please, dearest!"

"I--can't!" gasped Chris.

"She isn't going to," said Noel. "You run along, Hilda. And you can tell

Trevor with my love that if he'll clear out now I'll meet him at any time

and place he likes to mention and have a damned old row."

"Very good of you!" Another voice spoke on the other side of the door,

and Noel jumped in spite of himself. "But at the present moment you don't

count. Is Chris there? I want to speak to her."

The leisurely tones came, measured and distinct, through the closed door,

and Chris covered her face and shivered. "Oh, you'll have to let him in!"

she said. "Only--don't go away! Don't leave me alone with him!"

"Chris!" Mordaunt's voice, calm and unhurried, addressed her directly.

"Jack is here with me. Will you let us in?"

Chris lifted a haggard face. "Open the door, Noel!" she said.

"Why?" demanded Noel, with sudden ferocity. "We are not going to knock

under to him. Why should we?"

"It's no use," she said. "We can't help it. Besides--besides--" She broke

off with something like a sob, and rose from the sofa.

Noel looked at her under drawn brows. "You really mean it?"

"Yes." She pushed the hair from her forehead, and made a great effort to

still her agitation. "I do mean it, Noel. I--wish it."

"All right." The boy whizzed round and turned the key.

He met Mordaunt face to face on the threshold with clenched hands, his

face dark with passion. "If you hurt her--I'll kill you!" he said.

Had Mordaunt laughed at him, he would probably have attempted to carry

out his threat then and there, for his mood was tempestuous. But the

quiet eyes that met his blazing ones held no derision. They went beyond

him instantly, seeking the girlish figure that leaned against the

sofa-head for support; but a hand grasped his shoulder at the same moment

and turned him back into the room.

"I shan't quarrel with you on that account," Mordaunt said. "You can stay

if you like, and satisfy yourself."

Jack entered behind him, and went straight to Chris. He took her

quivering hands into his, and held them fast.

"That boy deserves to be horsewhipped for startling you like this," he

said.

She smiled at him wanly, but not as if she heard his words. "You will

stay with me, Jack?" she said beseechingly.

"If you wish it, dear. But Trevor wants to say something rather private.

Really, you have nothing to be afraid of."

His kindly eyes looked down reassuringly into hers. They seemed to reason

with her, to persuade and soothe at the same time.

But Chris's hands clung to his. "Don't--don't go!" she said. "I want

you--I want you, Jack."

"Suppose we sit down," said Jack practically. "Trevor, I wish you'd kick

that boy downstairs. It would do him good and me too. This isn't a family

conclave."

"Noel can stay," Mordaunt answered quietly. He was still looking towards

his wife, but he did not seem to be regarding her very intently. "You are

mistaken in thinking that I have anything to say to Chris in private. I

have only come to tell her what I have already told you, that Bertrand is

at Valpré, ill and wanting her. I will take her to him--if she will

come."

"Trevor!" She turned to him with eyes of sudden horror--horror so

definite that it swamped all her personal shrinking. "How is he ill?

You--you have hurt him!"

"I have done nothing to him," Mordaunt answered. "He is suffering from

heart-disease, and cannot be moved. I must start from Charing Cross in an

hour. Will you come with me?"

"To go to him?" Her eyes were still dilated, but they did not waver from

his.

"To go to him." He repeated the words with precision, and waited for her

answer.

But Chris sat in silence, her hands in Jack's.

"Look here," Noel broke in abruptly, "if Chris goes, I go."

"Very well," Mordaunt said. "If Chris desires it, you may."

Chris came out of her silence with a little shudder, and turned to the

man beside her. "Jack, tell me what to do!"

"I think you had better go, dear," Jack said.

"But if--but if--oh, is he very ill?" She looked again at her husband.

"He is very ill indeed," Mordaunt said.

"You think I ought to go?" She asked the question with an obvious effort.

"I have come to fetch you," he said.

"Then--he is dying!" she said, with sudden conviction.

Mordaunt was silent.

Abruptly she left Jack and went up to him. "Trevor," she said, "would you

want to take me to him if--if--"

"If--?" he repeated quietly.

"If you thought I was doing wrong to go?"

He made a slight movement, as if the question were unexpected. "I should

have explained to you," he said, "that your brother Max is in charge of

him, so that when I am not with you--and, as you know, I am attending the

Rodolphe trial--you will not be alone."

"Oh, Max is there!" she said, with relief. "But what is he doing at

Valpré?"

"He went there with Bertrand."

"But I thought Bertrand could not go to France," she hazarded.

"He went in disguise."

"Why?" Her lips trembled upon the word.

"Because he had something to say to me." With the utmost calmness his

answer came.

"Ah!" She started and turned so white that he put out a hand to steady

her.

She laid her own within it, as it were instinctively, because she needed

support.

"What was it?" she whispered.

He looked at her gravely. "Are you afraid to be alone with me?" he said.

"No."

"Then--quick march!" said Jack, with his hand through Noel's arm.

They went out together, Noel glancing back for the smallest sign from his

sister to remain.

But she made none. She stood quite still, with her hand in her husband's,

waiting.

As the door closed Mordaunt spoke. "Have you been ill?"

"No," she said faintly. "Not--not really ill."

She was aware of his close scrutiny for a moment, but she made not the

slightest attempt to meet it.

"You want to know what Bertrand said to me," he said. "And you have a

right to know. He told me the whole history of your friendship from the

beginning to the end."

"He told you about--about Valpré?" Her eyelids quivered, as if she wished

to raise them but dared not.

"Yes."

"Then you know--" Her hand fluttered in his.

"I know everything," he said.

Her white face quivered piteously. "And you--you are still angry?"

"No, I am not angry." He led her back to the sofa. "Sit down a minute,"

he said. "I don't think you are quite fit for this, and if you are going

back with me to Valpré, you will need to reserve your strength."

He sat down beside her, both her hands firmly clasped in his, as if

thereby he would impart to her the strength she lacked.

"You mean me to go, then?" murmured Chris.

"Don't you want to go?" he asked.

"If he really wants me--" she faltered. "And if you--you wish it, too."

"My dear," he said, "do my wishes make any real difference?"

She caught her breath sharply, and bent her head that he might not see

her face. "Yes," she whispered, under her breath.

"Very well," he said, "I wish it, too."

She was silent, but suddenly her tears began to fall upon the strong

hands that held hers. She would have given anything to have repressed

them at that moment. With her whole soul she shrank from showing him her

weakness, but it overpowered her. She bowed her head lower still, and

wept.

He sat quite motionless for seconds, so that even in the depth of her

distress she marvelled at his patience. But at last, very gently, he

moved, let her hands go, and rose.

He stood awhile turned from her, his face to the window, though the

sun-blind was all that could have met his view; finally, with grave

kindness, he spoke.

"I think I had better leave you to prepare for the journey. There is not

much time at your disposal, and you will probably need it all. It is

settled that Noel is to go with us?"

"You won't mind?" she whispered.

"I think it a very good plan," he answered.

He turned round and came back to her. She had commanded herself to a

certain extent, but still she could not raise her face. She waited

tensely as he approached, possessed by a sudden, almost delirious longing

to feel the touch of his lips.

Her desire surged into leaping hope as he stopped beside her. Would

he--could he? But he did not stoop. He only laid his hand for a moment

upon her head.

"Chris," he said, "try to think of me as a friend--and don't be afraid."

She thrilled at the low-spoken words. In another moment she would have

conquered all hesitation and sprung up to feel his arms about her, to

hide her face against him, to open to him all her quivering heart. But

for that moment he did not wait.

With the utterance of the words his hand fell, and he moved away.

The opening and the closing of the door told her he had gone.

CHAPTER VIII

ARREST

"Ah, but what a night for dreams!"

The cool salt air came in from the sea like a benediction, blowing softly

about the sick man by the window, sending a gleam of life into eyes grown

weary with long suffering. He leaned back upon his pillows for the first

time in many hours.

"It is as if the door of heaven had opened," he said.

"You're not going yet, old chap!" Max answered, a curious blending of

grimness and tenderness in his voice.

"But no--not yet--not yet." Softly Bertrand made answer, but resolution

throbbed in his words also. "I must not fail her--my little pal--my bird

of Paradise. But the night is very long, Max, _mon ami_. And the

darkness--the darkness--"

Max's hand came quietly down and closed upon his wrist. "I'll see you

through," he said.

"Yes--yes. You will help me. You are one of those created to help. That

is why you will be great. The great men are always--those who help."

The words came slowly, sometimes with difficulty, but the young medical

student made no attempt to check them. He only sat with shrewd eyes upon

the sick man's face and alert finger on his wrist, marking the waning

strength while he listened. For he knew that the night was long.

Years afterwards it came to be said of him that his patients never died

until his back was turned. It was not strictly true, but it conveyed

something of the magnetism with which he wrought upon them. He knew the

crucial moment by instinct, when to grapple and when to slacken his hold,

and he never went by rule.

And so on that his second night of vigil by the side of a dying man,

though he recognized speech as a danger, he made no effort to silence

him. He knew that weariness of the spirit that finds no vent was a

greater danger still.

"So you think I have a future before me?" he said.

"I am sure of it." Bertrand spoke with conviction. "It will not be an

easy future, _mon ami_. Perhaps it will not be happy. Those who climb

have no time to gather the flowers by the way. But--it will be great. You

desire that, yes?"

"In a fashion," Max said. "I don't know that I consider greatness in

itself as specially valuable. Do you?"

"I?" said Bertrand. "But I have passed all that. There was a time when

ambition was to me as the breath of life. I thought of nothing else. And

then"--his voice dropped a little--"there came a greater thing--the

greatest of all. And I knew that I had climbed above ambition. I knew

success and fame as a procession that passes--that passes--the mirage in

the desert--the dream in the midst of our great Reality. I knew all this

before my ruin came. It was as if a light had suddenly been held up, and

I saw the work of my life as pictures in the sand. Then the great tide

rushed up, and all was washed away. But yet"--his voice vibrated, he

looked at Max and smiled--"the light remained. For a time, indeed, I was

blind, but the light came back to me. And I know now that it was always

there."

He paused, and turned his head sharply.

"What is it?" said Max.

"I heard a sound."

"There are plenty of sounds in this place," Max pointed out.

"Ah! but this was different. It sounded like--" He stopped with a gasp

that made Max frown.

Undoubtedly there was a sound outside, the tread of feet, the jingle of a

sword. Max got up, still frowning, and went to the door.

He had barely reached it before there came a loud knock upon the panels,

and a voice cried: "_Ouvrez_!"

Max's knowledge of French was exceedingly limited, but that fact by no

means dismayed him. He turned round to Bertrand for a moment.

"I'm going to have a talk with this johnny. Don't agitate yourself. You

are not to move till I come back."

"_Ouvrez_!" cried the voice again.

"All right?" questioned Max.

Bertrand was leaning forward. His eyes were very bright, his breathing

very short. "They have come--to take me," he said.

"I'll see them damned first," said Max. "You keep still, and leave it to

me."

His hand was on the door with the words. A moment more he stood,

thick-set and British, looking back. Then with a curt nod, he opened the

door, and passed instantly out, pulling it after him.

Half a dozen soldiers filled the passage. The one who had knocked--an

officer--stood face to face with him.

"Now what do you want?" asked Max.

He stood, holding the door-handle, his red brows drawn, a glint of battle

in the green eyes beneath them. And so, during a brief silence, they

measured each other.

Then quite courteously the Frenchman spoke. "Monsieur, my duty brings me

here. Will you have the goodness to open that door?"

"It's a good thing you can speak English," Max remarked, with his

one-sided smile. "What do you want to go in there for? The room is mine."

"And you are entertaining a friend there, monsieur." The Frenchman still

spoke suavely; he even smiled an answering smile.

"That is so," Max said. "Do you know his name?"

"It is Bertrand de Montville." There was no hesitation in the reply. He

looked as if he expected the Englishman to move aside, as he made it. But

Max stood his ground.

"And what is your business with him?" he asked.

The officer's brows went up. "Monsieur?"

"You have come to arrest him?" Max questioned.

The Frenchman hesitated for a moment, then: "I must do my duty," he said.

The green eyes contemplated him thoughtfully for a space. Then, "I

suppose you know he is dying?" Max said slowly.

"Dying, monsieur!" The tone was sharp, the speaker plainly incredulous.

Max explained without emotion. "He is suffering from an incurable disease

of the heart, caused by hardship and starvation. If you go in and agitate

him now, I won't give that for his chances of lasting through the night."

He snapped his fingers without taking his eyes from the other's face.

"Is it true?" the Frenchman said.

"It is absolutely true." Max spoke quietly, but there was force behind

his words. "You can do what you like to safeguard him, though he is quite

incapable of getting away. You can surround the house and post sentries

at the door. But unless you want to kill him outright, you won't take him

away from here. You can send one of your own doctors to certify what I

say. You don't want to kill him, I presume?"

The Frenchman was listening attentively. It was evident that Max Wyndham

was making an impression.

"My orders are to arrest him and to take him to the fortress," he said.

"Dead or alive?" asked Max.

"But certainly not dead, monsieur. All France will be calling for him

to-morrow."

"That's the funny part of it," said Max. "France should have thought of

that before. Well, sir, if you want him to live, all you can do is to

wait. I will keep him going through the night, and you can send a doctor

round in the morning."

"You are a doctor?" asked the Frenchman keenly.

"No. I am a medical student."

"And you are friends, _hein_?"

"Yes, we are friends. It was I who brought him here."

"But what a pity, monsieur!" There was a touch of kindly feeling in the

words.

"Yes," Max acknowledged grimly. "It was a pity. But his reason for coming

was urgent. And, after all, it made little difference. It has only

hastened by a few weeks the end that was bound to come."

"You think that he will die?"

"Yes." Max spoke briefly. His tone was one of indifference.

The Frenchman looked at him curiously. "And what was his reason for

coming?"

"It was a strictly private one," Max said. "This trial had nothing to do

with it. It will certainly never be made public, so I am not at liberty

to speak of it."

"And has he done--that which he left England to do?"

"Not yet, sir, but he may do it--if he lives long enough." Again Max's

tone was devoid of all feeling. He still stood planted squarely against

the closed door.

"And you think he will not do that?"

"On the contrary," said Max, "I think he will--if I am with him to keep

him going."

He spoke with true British doggedness, and a gleam of humour crossed the

Frenchman's face. He made a brief bow.

"M. de Montville is fortunate to possess such a friend," he said.

The corner of Max's mouth went down. "As to that," he said dryly, "he

might do a good deal better, and a very little worse. Now, sir, what are

you going to do?"

The Frenchman looked quizzical. "It seems that I must take your advice,

monsieur, or risk very serious consequences. I shall leave a guard here

during the night, and I must ask you to give me the key of this door.

_Après cela_"--he shrugged his shoulders--"_nous verrons_."

Max turned without protest, opened the door, and withdrew the key. He

stood a moment listening before he turned back and laid it in the

officer's hand. His face was grave.

"I think I must go to him," he said. "You will see to it that he is not

disturbed?"

"No one will enter without your permission," the Frenchman answered. "And

you, monsieur, will remain with him until I return."

"I see," said Max. Again, for an instant, the fighting gleam was in his

eyes, then carelessly he laughed. "Well, I shan't try to run away. He and

I are down in the same lot. You would find it harder to turn me out than

to keep me here."

"I believe it, monsieur." There was no irony in the words or in the bow

that accompanied them. "And I repeat, he is a happy man who possesses

your friendship."

"Oh, rats!" said Max, and suddenly turned scarlet. "You are talking

through your hat, sir. If you've quite done, I'll go."

It was the most boyish utterance he had permitted himself, and as he gave

vent to it he was so obviously ill at ease that the Frenchman smiled.

"But you are younger than I thought," he said. "Will you shake hands?"

Max gave his customary hard grip. They looked into each other's eyes for

a moment, and separated with mutual respect.

Five seconds later Max had returned to his self-appointed task of helping

a dying man to live through the night.

CHAPTER IX

VALPRÉ AGAIN

"How dark it is!" said Chris. "And how we are crawling!"

She turned her white face from the carriage-window with the words. They

were the first she had uttered since leaving Paris.

Neither of her two companions responded at once. Noel was curled up in

the farther corner asleep, and her husband sitting opposite was writing

rapidly in a notebook. He stopped to finish his sentence before he looked

up. She was conscious of a little sense of chill because he did so.

"Why don't you try to get a sleep?" he said then. "We shall not reach

Valpré for another two hours."

"I can't sleep," she said.

Her eyes avoided his instinctively. They were more nearly alone together

at this moment than they had been since their brief interview that

morning at the Davenants' flat. It seemed weeks ago to Chris already.

"Have you tried?" he asked.

"No."

He did not make the obvious rejoinder, but glanced again at his writing,

added something, and put it away. Then, with his usual deliberation of

movement, he left his seat and came over to her side.

She had a moment of desperate shyness as he sat down. "Don't let me

interrupt you," she said nervously.

He ignored the words, as if he considered them foolish "I should like you

to get a little sleep," he said. "You have had a long day. Look at that

fellow over there, setting the good example."

"He hasn't so much to think about," said Chris, with a smile that

quivered in spite of her.

"Are you thinking very hard?" he asked.

"Yes." She brought out the word with an effort, for suddenly she wanted

to cry again, and she was determined to keep back her tears this time.

He made no comment, but sat and looked at the blank darkness of the

window.

After a time she mastered herself, and stole a glance at his grave face.

"You--I suppose you will be busy at the court again to-morrow?" she said.

"Yes." He turned to her in his quiet way. "It will be the last day in all

probability."

"You think the verdict will be made known?"

"Yes."

She shivered a little. "And the sentence?"

"The sentence will probably not be disclosed till later."

She shivered again, and he reached forward and drew the window a little

higher.

"I'm not cold," she said quickly. "Trevor, aren't you--just

a little--sorry for him?"

"For whom?"

"For the prisoner--for--for Captain Rodolphe." She stammered the name

with downcast eyes.

"No." Very calmly and very decidedly came his answer. "I have no pity for

a man of that sort. I think he should be shot."

"Oh, do you?" she said with a gasp.

"Yes, I do. A treacherous scoundrel like that is worse than a murderer in

my opinion. So is anyone who is fundamentally untrustworthy."

"Oh, but--but--Trevor--," she said, and suddenly there was a note of

pleading in her halting words, "that includes the weak people with the

wicked. Don't you think--that is rather hard?"

"Quite possibly." He made the admission in a tone she did not understand,

and relapsed into silence.

She felt as if the subject were closed, and did not venture to pursue it.

But after a moment he surprised her by a quiet question: "Why don't you

try to convince me that I am wrong?"

She looked up at him quickly, as if compelled. His eyes were waiting for

hers, met them, held them.

"I am not suggesting that you should defend Rodolphe," he said. "You were

not thinking of him. He is not one of the weak."

"I was thinking of myself," she said. "And--and--and--" She wavered and

stopped.

"Rupert?" he suggested.

She caught her breath. "What made you think of him?"

"You were thinking of him, were you not?"

She made a gesture of helplessness. "Yes."

"I see," he said. "But you needn't be anxious about Rupert. He came to me

long ago and told me the truth."

She opened her eyes wide. "What made him do that?"

"He heard that Bertrand was bearing the blame for his misdeeds, and he

had the decency to be ashamed of himself."

"Oh!" said Chris. She was silent for a moment, still meeting his steady

gaze. Suddenly her mouth quivered and she turned from them. "Trevor, I--I

am ashamed too."

"Hush!" he said.

The word was brief, it sounded stern; but in the same instant his hand

found hers and held it very tightly.

She mastered herself with a great effort in response to his insistence.

"Were you very angry with him?" she whispered.

"No."

"You didn't--punish him in any way?"

"No. I told him to forget it and said I should do the same. As a matter

of fact, I had forgotten it until this moment." Mordaunt's tone was

unemotional; he released her hand as he was speaking, and again she was

conscious of that small sense of chill.

"You forgave him, then?" she said.

"Yes, I did." He paused a moment; then: "By and bye," he said, "Rupert

will take on the management of the Kellerton estate, and I think he will

probably be a great help to me."

Chris's eyes shot upwards in amazement. "Trevor! Not really?"

He smiled a little. "Yes, really. It is the sort of life that suits him

best; and he will be pretty busy, so it ought to keep him out of

mischief."

"Oh, but, Trevor--" she said, and stopped short.

"Well?" he said gently.

"I didn't think you would do that," she murmured in confusion. "I didn't

think you would ever trust any of us again."

"You think I may regret it?" he said.

She turned her face to the window and made no answer.

He sat beside her for a little longer in silence, then rose, bundled up a

travelling-rug to form a cushion, and arranged it in her corner. "Lean

against that," he said kindly. "I know you can sleep if you don't try not

to."

She thanked him with trembling lips, and as he turned away she caught his

hand for a moment and held it to her cheek.

He withdrew it at once though with absolute gentleness. He did not speak

a word.

Thereafter she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the drumming of

the train was in her ears perpetually, and she could not forget it.

Present also was the consciousness of her husband's quiet watchfulness.

Though he held aloof from her, his care surrounded her unceasingly. Not

once had she felt it relax since she had placed herself in his charge.

Did he guess? she asked herself, and trembled inwardly. He was being very

kind to her in a distant, measured fashion. Was that the reason for it?

Could it be?

Her thoughts went back to her talk with her cousin, to the bitter words

she had uttered. Would he really care if she were to die? Would he? Would

he? She longed to know.

But of course he would not, or he could not be so cold. For Bertrand's

sake he had come to fetch her. He had evidently forgiven Bertrand just as

he had forgiven Rupert. He forgave everybody but her, she thought to

herself forlornly. For his wife alone he could not make allowances.

Again the hot tears welled up, and her closed lids could not keep them

back. The dumb anxiety that had gnawed at her heart all through the day

returned upon her overwhelmingly, became a burden too heavy to be borne.

She covered her face and sobbed.

"Chris!" Her husband's voice came down to her in the depths of her

distress. His hand pressed her head. "Leave off crying," he said. "You

mustn't cry."

She turned her face upwards, all blinded with tears. "Trevor, I know--I

know we shan't be in time!"

They were not the words she wanted to say to him, but they came uppermost

and were uttered almost before she knew. She wondered if they would make

him angry, but it was too late to recall them. She reached out her hands

to him imploringly.

"Oh, forgive me for caring so much!"

"Hush!" he said again very gently. "I understand."

He put the hair back from her forehead, and dried her eyes. There was

something almost maternal in his touch.

"You mustn't cry," he said again. "I think you will be in time, and if

you are, you will need all your strength; so you mustn't waste it now.

Come, you are going to be brave?"

"I'll try," she said faintly.

"See if you can get to sleep," he said.

"But I know I can't," whispered Chris.

"I think you can." He spoke with grave conviction.

"Will you--will you hold my hand?" faltered Chris.

He took it at once. She felt his fingers close steadily upon it, and a

sense of comfort stole over her. She clasped them very tightly, and

closed her eyes.

The train drummed on through the night, bearing her back to Valpré, back

to the old enchantments, to the sands, the caves, and the rocks. She

began to hear again the long, low wash of the sea. Or was it the sound of

wheels that raced over the metals? Before her inner vision came the

spreading line of foam that had rushed how often to catch her dancing

feet. And the quiet pools crystal-clear among the rocks, with the

sunshine that turned their pebbly floors to gold, so that they became

palaces of delight, draped with exquisite curtains of rose and palest

green, peopled with scuttling crabs that were not really crabs at all,

but the spellbound retinue of the knight who dwelt in the Magic Cave.

She looked towards the Gothic archway, expectant, with quickening

breath. Surely he would be coming soon! Ah, now she saw him--a radiant,

white-clad figure, with the splendour of eternal youth upon him and the

Deathless Magic in his eyes.

And suddenly her own eyes were opened, so that she knew beyond all

doubting that the spell that bound him--that bound them both--was the

spell of Immortality, the Divine Passport--Love the Indestructible.

Thereafter came a wondrous peace, solacing her, calming her, wrapping her

round. Once she stirred, and was conscious of a quiet hand holding hers,

lulling her to a more assured restfulness. And so at last she slipped

into the quiet of a deep slumber, and the throbbing anxiety sank utterly

away.

When she opened her eyes again it was in answer to her husband's voice.

She awoke quite naturally to find him bending over her.

"We are at Valpré," he said.

She sat up quickly. "Why, I have been asleep!"

"Yes," he said. "And you will be the better for it. Noel has gone to

secure a conveyance. The place is crammed, as you know. You are feeling

all right?"

Again for a moment she felt his scrutiny, and her heart quickened under

it. But she mustered a smile.

"Yes, quite. You will let me come with you, Trevor? You won't go on

first?"

"I shall not leave you," he said.

He gave her his hand to descend from the train, and she clung to it while

they threaded their way through the noisy, gesticulating crowd that

thronged the platform.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she found herself at last in the

ramshackle _fiacre_ which Noel by strenuous effort had managed to

commandeer. The din bewildered her. But for her husband's protecting

presence she would have felt like a lost child.

As they rumbled away over the stones of Valpré he spoke. "We are in time,

Chris."

Her heart gave a great throb. "Are we? But how do you know?"

"Everyone is talking of him," he said quietly. "And I gather that he has

been arrested."

"Oh, Trevor!" she breathed in dismay.

"Max is with him," he reminded her. "I don't think they would get rid of

him very easily. We shall know more when we get there."

They clattered on to the _plage_, and the cold sea wind blew in upon

them.

Noel snuffed it appreciatively. "Smells decent, anyway. Wonder if they're

still running the same old show. I say, Chris, do you remember the Goat?"

Chris did. With her face to the dark sea and the sound of its waves in

her ears, she recalled the old light-hearted days and the shrill

admonitions of Mademoiselle Gautier. How often had she prophesied

disaster for her charge among the rocks of Valpré! Chris smiled a little

piteous smile. Ah, well!

The _fiacre_ jerked and jolted over the stones. They left the _plage_

behind and came to a standstill with a violent swerve.

"Now what?" said Noel.

They seemed to have come suddenly upon a crowd of people. Late though it

was, all Valpré apparently was awake and abroad.

They staggered on again at a snail's pace, hearing voices all about

them, now and then catching glimpses of faces in the light of the

carriage-lamps.

"Feels like a funeral procession!" observed Noel jocularly.

"Shut up!" said Mordaunt curtly.

Chris squeezed his hand very hard and said nothing.

Slowly, slowly they drew near to the hotel. A glare of lights shone upon

them. The whole place was a buzz of excitement.

They turned into the courtyard, passing two soldiers on guard at the

gate. No one spoke to them, or attempted to delay their progress. They

stopped before the swing-doors.

An obsequious official came forward to greet them as they descended, and

Mordaunt entered into conversation with him. Two soldiers were on guard

here also, standing like images on each side of the entrance. Noel

studied them with frank interest. Chris stood and waited as one in a

dream.

At last her husband turned to her. He introduced the obsequious one, who

bowed very low and declared himself enchanted. And then she found herself

moving through the vestibule, where a great many men of all nationalities

looked at her curiously and a great babble of voices hummed like some

immense machinery.

She turned to the man beside her with a touch of nervousness, and at once

his hand closed upon her arm.

"Bertrand is still living," he said.

She looked up at him imploringly. "Can't we go to him?"

"Yes, we are going now. He is upstairs. They wanted to take him to the

fortress, but he is too ill to be moved."

They went on together. He led her into a lift, and they passed out of

reach of the staring crowd.

A familiar figure was awaiting them above, and greeted Chris

deferentially as she stepped into the corridor.

"Why, Holmes!" she said, and held out her hand to him.

He took it with reverence. For the first time in her memory she detected

a hint of emotion on his impassive face.

"He--hasn't gone, Holmes?" she whispered breathlessly.

"No, madam. He is waiting for you," Holmes made answer, very gently.

Waiting for her! She smiled piteously in her relief. Bertrand de

Montville would be her perfect knight to the last.

As they went on down the long corridor she missed the grasp of her

husband's fingers, and stopped like a child to slip her hand back into

his.

He looked down at her gravely, saying nothing. And so they came at last

to the door of Bertrand's room.

Two soldiers were on guard here also. The door was closed.

Holmes went quietly forward and showed a paper to one of the sentries.

Chris waited with a beating heart. Suddenly, with a sob, she turned and

clung to her husband's arm. "Trevor, I--I am afraid!"

"There is no need," he said.

"I have never seen death," she whispered. "Will he seem--different?"

He looked at her for a second in such a way that her eyes fell from his.

"Would you like me to go in first?" he asked.

"No--no. Only, Trevor, hold my hand! You won't let go? Promise!"

He did not promise, but somehow without words he reassured her. The door

opened before them, and they entered.

CHAPTER X

THE INDESTRUCTIBLE

Within the room all was dim.

An arm-chair piled with many pillows stood facing the open window, and as

her eyes became accustomed to the twilight Chris discerned the outline of

a figure that reclined in it. At the same moment there came to her the

sound of a voice, husky and difficult, yet how strangely familiar.

"Ah, but the tide--the tide!" it said. "Can we not hold it back my dear

Max--a little longer? It rushes up so fast--so fast. Soon all will be

gone. Only a picture in the sand, you say? But no, it is more than that.

See, it is greater than all the things in the world--greater than

the Sphinx, _ma petite_--greater than your Cleopatra's Needle. Ah, you

laugh, because you have no need of it. But yet it is your own, and so

will it always be. Do you hear the tide among the rocks, _mignonne_? It

is there that my heart is buried. Come with me, and I will show you the

place--if the tide permit."

There came a gasp, and silence.

Some one guided Chris gently forward till she stood behind the great

chair at the window, looking down upon the black head that rested

against the pillow. Her fear had passed, but yet she drew no nearer.

Instinctively she stood and waited.

Suddenly, and more clearly, the voice spoke again.

"We must climb, _chérie_, we must climb. We dare not stay upon these

rocks. It is steep for your little feet, but to remain here is to die.

_Alors_, we will say our prayers and go. _Le bon Dieu_ will keep us safe.

And we have been--pals--since so long."

A softer note in the last sentence made her aware that he was smiling.

She bent a little above him. But still she waited.

"_Comment_?" he said. "You are afraid? But why, my bird of Paradise? Is

it life that you fear--this little life of shadows? Or Death--which is

the gateway to our great Reality? Listen, _mignonne_! I am a prisoner

while I live, but the gate opens to me. Soon I shall be free. No, no!

I cannot take you with me. I would not, _chérie_, if I could. Your place

is here. But remember--always--that I love you still. And my love is

stronger than death. It stretches into eternity."

He paused, and made a slight gesture of refusal. "Ah, no!" he said. "I do

not want a priest. My sins are all known--and pardoned. I only want--one

thing now."

"What is it, old chap?" It was Max Wyndham's voice, but pitched so low

that Chris scarcely recognized it.

The head on the pillow moved, turning towards the speaker. "So, _mon

ami_, you are still there?"

"What is it you are wanting?" Max said.

Bertrand drew a breath that was cut short and ended in a gasp. "_Mon

ami_, I only want--to hold her little hand in mine--and to hear her

say--that she is--happy."

And then it was that Chris moved forward, as if impelled by a volition

not her own, and knelt down by Bertrand's side.

"Do you want me, Bertie?" she said. "I've come, dear! I've come!"

He put out his hand to her at once, but slowly, as though feeling his

way. "Christine!" he said.

She took the groping hand, and held it fast pressed between her own.

"Yes, dear?" she murmured.

"You are really here?" he said. "It is not--a dream?"

"No, Bertie, no! It is I myself, here with you at Valpré."

She felt his hand close within her own. "You are come--to say good-bye to

me?" he said. "And Mr. Mordaunt--is he here also?"

"He brought me," whispered Chris.

"Ah!" She heard the relief in his voice. "Then--Christine, all is right

between you?"

But she was silent, for she could not answer him.

He stirred. He leaned slowly forward. "Tell me," he said, very earnestly,

"tell me that all is well between you."

But Chris said no word. She only bowed her head over the hand she held.

There was a brief silence. Bertrand was bending over her. He seemed to be

trying to see her face. He moved at last, passed his free arm around her,

and spoke. "Mr. Mordaunt--is he here?"

"Yes, I am here." Very steadily came Mordaunt's answer. Mordaunt himself

took Max's place beside him.

Bertrand looked up at him. "Monsieur--" he said, and hesitated.

"Ask him what he wants," muttered Max, gripping his brother-in-law's

elbow with tense insistence.

"Do you want anything?" He uttered the question at once, quite clearly,

without emotion.

"Monsieur," Bertrand said again, and there was entreaty in his voice,

"out of your great goodness of heart you have brought _la petite_ to

say adieu to me. Will you not--extend that goodness--a little farther?

Will you not--now that you understand--now that you understand"--he

repeated the phrase insistently--"remove the estrangement of which I have

been--the so unhappy cause?"

"Bertie, no--no!" There was sharp pain in Chris's voice. She raised

herself quickly. "You don't understand, dear, and I--can't explain. But

you are not to ask that of him. I can't bear it."

There was a quiver of passion in the last words. It was as though they

were uttered in spite of her.

Mordaunt stood motionless, in utter silence. His face was in shadow.

Bertrand turned to the kneeling girl. "Will you, then, plead for

yourself, _chérie_?" he said. "He will not refuse you. He knows all."

"No, no; he doesn't," said Chris.

"But you will tell him," urged Bertrand gently. "See, I cannot leave

you--my two good friends--thus. Since I have caused so much trouble

between you, I must do my possible to redress the evil. _Chérie_, promise

me--that you will go back to him. Not otherwise shall I die happy."

"I can't!" whispered Chris. "I can't!"

"But why not?" he said. "You love him, yes?"

But Chris was silent. She was trembling from head to foot.

"I know that you love him," Bertrand said, with confidence. "And for

that--you will go back to him. You cannot live your life apart from him.

You belong to him, Christine, and he--he belongs to you. Mr. Mordaunt--my

dear friend--is it not so?"

But before he could answer, feverishly Chris again broke in. "Bertie,

hush--hush! It isn't right! It isn't fair! Oh, forgive me for saying it!

But can't you see that it isn't? He has forgiven me, and we are friends.

But you mustn't ask any more than that, because--because it's no use." A

sudden sob rose in her throat. She swallowed it with an immense effort.

"He has been kind to me--for your sake," she said, "not my own. I have

done nothing to deserve his kindness. I have never been worthy of him,

and he knows it. I married him, loving you. Oh no, I didn't know it, but

I ought to have known. And when I did know, I would have left him and

gone with you. Nothing can ever alter that. And do you suppose he will

ever forget it? Because I know--I know--that he never can!"

She ceased abruptly, and turned aside to battle with her agitation.

Bertrand's hand stroked hers very tenderly, but his eyes were raised to

the man who stood like a statue by his side.

He spoke after a moment very softly, almost as if to himself.

"Neither will he forget," he said, "that our love was a summer

idyll that came to us unawares in the days when we were young, and

that though the idyll will come to an end, our love is a gift

immortal--imperishable--indestructible--a flame that burns upwards and

always upwards--reaching the Divine. And because he remembers this,

he will understand, and think no evil. Christine," he turned to her again

very persuasively, "you love him. You have need of him. I know it well.

You are sad. You are lonely. Your heart cries out for him. Little

Christine, will you not listen to it? Will you not go back to him?"

The man's whole soul was in the words. They quivered with the intensity

of his appeal. Yet they went into silence. Chris was turned away from

him. Only by the convulsive holding of her hand did he know that they had

reached her heart.

The silence lengthened, became oppressive, became a burden too heavy to

be borne.

"Christine!" He was becoming exhausted. His voice was no more than a

whisper, but it throbbed with earnest entreaty.

Yet Chris remained silent still, for she could not speak in answer.

Several seconds passed. It seemed that the appeal would go unanswered.

But at length the man who stood on Bertrand's other side made a quiet

movement, bending down a little.

"You need not distress yourself, Bertrand," he said, very steadily, and

as he spoke his hand was on the Frenchman's shoulder. "Chris will never

leave me again."

"Ah!" Eagerly Bertrand looked up at him. He had begun to gasp again,

and his words were hurried and difficult of utterance. "And you,

monsieur--you will not--leave her?"

Mordaunt made no verbal answer, but their eyes must have met in the

dimness and some message have passed between them, for there was a tremor

of sheer relief in his voice when Bertrand spoke again.

"Oh, my friend!" he said. "My dear friend!" And, yielding to the hand

that gently pressed him back, he reclined upon his pillows and became

passive.

Mordaunt remained beside him for several seconds longer, but he did not

speak again. When he straightened himself at length, he glanced round for

Max, and motioned him away.

They went together into the adjoining room and softly closed the door.

And so Chris and her _preux chevalier_ were left alone by the open window

to end their summer idyll to the music of the rising tide that crooned

and murmured among the rocks of Valpré that had seen its beginning.

CHAPTER XI

THE END OF THE VOYAGE

How the sun was shining on the water! What a glorious morning for a

bathe! Chris laughed to herself--a happy little, inconsequent laugh.

But she must be quick or Mademoiselle Gautier would catch her and forbid

her to go! Poor old Mademoiselle, who had been brought up in a convent

and thought all nice things were improper!

Would Bertie be there with his boat, a white-clad, supple figure, with

his handsome olive face, and his dark eyes with their friendly laugh?

Surely it was the flash of his oars in the sunlight that dazzled her so!

She would swim to him through the crystal water, and he would stretch out

his hands to her, and she would go up to him like a bird from the sea,

and perch upon the stern. He would scold her a little for swimming out so

far, but what of that? She liked being scolded by Bertie!

How warmly the sun shone down upon them! And how she loved to watch the

slim activity of him as he bent to his work! She wished they did not move

quite so fast, even though the speed was so delicious, for they were

nearing the rocks. Oh no, she was not afraid! Who could be afraid with

Bertie in the boat? But when they reached the rocks, it would be the end

of the voyage, and she did not want it to end.

Ah! now she could catch the sparkle of the sand, and there away in the

distance a powdery whirl which was all she could see of Cinders. He was

evidently digging for dear life, and again Chris laughed.

And now she stood with her back to the glittering sea, and her face to

the mysterious granite of the ages. Where had he gone--her _preux

chevalier_? Was he hidden in the dark recesses of the Magic Cave? She

would go in search of him. He would not hide long from her, for she

possessed the secret of the spell that would draw him forth.

But the rocks were slippery under her feet, and more than once she

stumbled. She found herself confronted by obstacles such as had never

before obstructed her path. A little tremor of distress went through her.

Why had she quitted that sunny sea? Why had she ever suffered herself to

be beguiled into the boat?

It became increasingly difficult, wellnigh impossible, to go forward. She

turned aside. Ah! there was Bertie, after all, out on the sand, waiting

for her. He held a naked sword in his hand. Evidently he was drawing

pictures. She knew what they would be before she reached him: St. George

and the Dragon, that "beast enormous with eyes of fire"; the Sphinx, and

Cleopatra's Needle. She saw them all; and soon the great tide would race

up with a mighty roaring and wash them all away. Was it not the destiny

of all things--save one?

Stay! Was it the sand on which he was expending his skill thus? Why,

then, did his sword move so swiftly, like lightning-flashes, where the

sun caught it? Ah, now she saw more clearly. It was a duel. He was

fighting with every inch of him, steadfast, unflinching, in her cause.

How splendidly he controlled himself! The clear grace of his every

movement held her spellbound.

For a while she watched him, not heeding his adversary, watched the glint

of the crossed swords, the pass, the thrust, and the return. And then, by

some mysterious influence, her eyes were drawn upward to the face of his

opponent, and it was as if one of those flashing blades had found her

heart. For Bertrand de Montville was fighting the grey-eyed, level-browed

Englishman who was her husband!

With a cry she sprang forward to intervene. She flung herself between

them in an agony. One of them--Trevor--caught her in his arms. The other

staggered backwards and fell upon the sand. She saw his dead face as he

lay....

"Oh, Trevor!" she cried in anguish. "Trevor! Trevor!"

He held her closely to him. She felt his hand laid in soothing on her

head. Gasping, she opened her eyes upon his face.

"That's better," he said gently. "You've had a bad dream."

"Was it a dream?" she asked him wildly. "Was it a dream?"

And then she remembered that Bertrand had fallen asleep in the very early

hours of the morning, and that they had led her away to another room to

rest. Worn out in mind and body, she had yielded. She marvelled now that

she had been so easily persuaded.

She turned within the circle of her husband's arm. "Trevor, you promised

you would call me if he waked."

His hand was still upon her head; its touch was sustaining, subtly

comforting. "He did not wake, dear," he said.

The words were few, but in a flash she knew the truth. Her eyes grew wide

and dark. Her clinging hands tightened upon his arm. She made no sound of

any sort. She even ceased to breathe.

He drew her head down upon his shoulder, and held her fast pressed

against his breast. "Don't be afraid," he said.

But she remained tense in his arms, till her rigidity and silence alarmed

him. He began to rub her cold cheek.

"Chris, speak to me!"

She turned her face into his breast, and with relief he heard her begin

to breathe again. But she did not speak. She only lay there dumbly in

crushed stillness.

For a while he waited, but at last, as she made no movement, he spoke

again. "Chris, would you like me to leave you?"

That reached her. She turned her face quickly upwards. "No, Trevor."

The wide, strained look was still in her eyes, but they did not flinch

from his.

"I knew he was dead," she said, speaking very quickly, "when I woke up

just now. I thought--I thought--" She broke off, as if she could not

continue. "And afterwards--directly I saw you by my side--I knew it was

true. Trevor"--the piteous note sounded again in her voice--"why are you

not afraid of death?"

"Because I don't believe in it," he said.

"But yet--but yet--" Her words faltered away into silence.

He laid his hand again upon her head. "My dear, death is purely physical.

You know it in your heart as well as I do. Death is the passing of the

spirit--no more than that."

She uttered a deep sigh. "Oh, Trevor, I wish I wasn't so wicked."

His hand began to caress her hair. "I don't think you know what

wickedness is, dear," he said.

"But I do--I do!" she protested. "I--I am almost terrified sometimes when

I realize it. And I feel as if--as if--Bertie wouldn't have been taken

away--if I hadn't loved him so." Her voice sank, she hid her face a

little lower.

"But you make a mistake," he said gently. "There is no sin in love--so

long as it is love and nothing else. A good many sins masquerade in the

form of love, but love itself--what you and I call love--is sinless. And

it is that--and that alone--that can never die." He paused a moment, and

his hand ceased to stroke her bright hair and became still. "It is bad

enough," he said, his voice sunk very low, "that I could ever

misunderstand you; but, my dear, don't make things harder by

misunderstanding yourself."

She moved at that as though it touched her very nearly, and suddenly she

slipped from his arms, and knelt beside him. "Trevor," she said, with

quivering lips, "don't be too kind to me! I can't bear it."

He looked down at her very sadly. "It would be a new experience for you,

my Chris, if I were," he said.

"No--no." She bent her face quickly, and laid it against his hand. "I've

deceived you a hundred times--yes, and lied to you. You bore with me over

and over again, even when you knew I wasn't being straight. You did your

very utmost to keep me true. You trusted me even when you knew I was

cheating. Oh, I don't wonder that I killed your love at last. The wonder

was that it lived so long."

She stopped, for his hand had clenched upon itself at her words. But he

said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue. She went on

quickly--

"I know you feel you must be kind to me now because"--she caught her

breath--"Bertie is gone, and he wished it so. But--but--I shan't

expect--a great deal. I--I shall be quite grateful--if I may have--a

little friendship. I don't want you to think that--that--"

"That you want my love?" he said.

"Oh, I didn't mean that!" She looked up at him in distress, but she could

not see his face with any distinctness.

His elbow was on the arm of his chair, and his hand shaded it.

"I know I forfeited all that," she said. "And I want you to feel that

I--understand, and shall never expect to have it again. That is what I

mean when I say, don't be too kind to me. You have been that, and much

more than that, already. But I won't trade on your generosity. I am not a

child any longer to need support and protection. I am old enough to stand

alone."

"And what of my promise to Bertrand?"

He asked the question quite quietly, as though it were of no special

moment to him, but she flinched before it, and turned her face aside.

"Oh, I don't think he would want you to be kind to me for his sake--if he

knew how much it hurt?"

Mordaunt was silent for a moment, then: "And you have no use for my

love?" he said.

She made a movement almost convulsive. "Trevor, don't--torture me!"

"My child," he said, "I only ask because I need to know."

She laid a trembling hand on his. "If I thought--you loved me--" She

stopped, battling desperately for self-control, and after a few seconds

began again. "If I thought--you wanted me--"

"I do want you, Chris," he said.

She cast a startled look into his face. "Oh, but you only say that

because--because--"

"Because it is the truth," he said.

"But is it the truth?" she asked, a little wildly. "Is it? Is it? Oh,

Trevor, if you knew--if you knew--" Her voice failed. She began to sob.

"I can't bear it," she whispered. "I can't! I can't!" And with that she

broke down utterly, bowing her head upon his knee in a passion of weeping

more violent than he had ever before witnessed.

"Chris! Chris!" he said.

He would have lifted her, but she sank lower, as one crushed to the earth

by a burden too heavy to be borne.

For a while her weeping was the only sound in the room, but at length he

spoke again over her bowed head.

"Chris--my darling--do you know--I can't bear it either if you cry like

this?"

His voice was low and not very steady. It appealed to her even in the

depth of her distress. She stretched up a trembling hand, and clasped

his.

Gradually her sobbing grew less violent, and at length it ceased; but she

remained crouched against his knee with her face hidden for many minutes.

Trevor said no more. Only at last he bent and laid his lips upon her

hair.

She moved then sharply, and for a single instant she saw his face. It was

enough, more than enough for her quick heart. In a moment the barrier

between them was down. She raised herself and threw her arms around his

neck.

"My dear! My dear!" she said.

"It's all right," he whispered back.

Her arms tightened. She clung to him passionately. "Trevor--darling, I

didn't know! I didn't understand!"

"It's all right," he said again.

She pressed her face to his. "Trevor, don't fret, dear! I'm not worth it.

And I--I'm coming back to you--if you will have me."

"I want you," he answered simply.

"Not just for his sake?" she pleaded. "Or even for mine?"

"For my own," he said.

She was silent for a little. Then impulsively, with something of her old,

quick charm of movement, she turned her lips to his. "Trevor, I believe I

should die without you."

"Poor child!" he said gently.

"No--no! Don't pity me! Love me--love me!"

He pressed her closer. "My Chris, no one ever loved you more."

"Yes," she whispered. "I know that now. And I shall never forget it.

Trevor, I love you, too. You believe that?"

"I know it, dear," he said.

"And because I love you," she said, "I'm not afraid of you any more.

Trevor, let us promise each other that nothing shall ever come between us

again."

"Nothing ever shall," he said steadily.

"Nothing ever shall," she repeated softly. "And--and--Trevor--" She

suddenly hid her face against his shoulder and became silent again.

"But you are not afraid of me?" he said.

"No, dear, no; not afraid." Her voice quivered notwithstanding. "Only

foolish, you know, and--and--a little doubtful lest--lest--when I've told

you--something--you shouldn't be quite--pleased."

"I am--quite pleased, dear," he said.

She raised her head. "Trevor! You know?"

He took her face between his hands. "My darling, yes."

She opened her eyes wide, searching his face. "But that--that wasn't your

reason for--wanting me back?"

He looked straight down into her eyes, still holding her. "I wonder if I

need answer that question," he said slowly.

She was silent for a moment, then stretched her hands to him with a

gesture of complete confidence. "No, dear, you needn't. Just forgive me

for asking--that's all."

He stooped at once without speaking, and the kiss that passed between

them was the seal of a perfect understanding.

Not till some time later did the request he was expecting her to make

find utterance. He had been giving her a few details of Bertrand's

illness and death.

"He simply went in his sleep," he said, "scarcely an hour after you left

him. Max and I were both with him, but he went so easily that we neither

of us knew when it was. There was no suffering or distress of any sort.

He just passed."

He spoke with great gentleness. He was keenly anxious to remove her fear

of death. But he knew by the way her arm tightened about his neck that

something of the awe of it was upon her even while he spoke.

"Trevor," she said, in a very low voice, "I almost think I would like to

see him."

"Yes, dear."

"But--I can't go alone," she said. "Will you come too?"

"Of course," he said.

She rose to her feet. "Let's go now."

He rose also with her hand in his. "There is some stuff here Max gave me

for you," he said. "Drink that first."

"Where is Max?" she asked.

"I sent him to bed, and Noel too."

"And you have been sitting up with me ever since?"

"It was only three hours," he said.

He gave her Max's draught with the words, as if to check all comment on

his action, and Chris submissively said no more. But she held his hand

very tightly as they went out together.

The dawn was just spreading golden over the sea when they entered the

room where Bertrand lay asleep. The light of it poured in at the open

window like a benediction. Outside, the two sentries still stood on

guard. But within was no earthly presence, only the scent and sound of

the sea, only the growing splendour of the day, only the quiet dead

waiting for the Resurrection....

Chris's hand trembled within her husband's as she drew near. But later,

when she looked upon the dear, familiar face, the awe went out of her

own.

For Bertrand's sleep was very easy, serenely natural. It seemed to Chris

that the man's vanished youth had come back to beautify his rest. For all

the weariness she had grown accustomed to see had passed away. She even

thought he smiled.

Back on a rush of memory came his words: "I know that all Love is

eternal, and Death is only an incident in eternity."

Till that moment they had never recurred to her. From that moment she

carried them perpetually in her heart.

She drew a little nearer. She bent above him. And it was to her as if the

dead lips spoke: "Though I shall not be with you, you will know that I am

loving you still. It will be as an Altar Flame that burns for ever.

Believe me, Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love."

"I know it, I know it," whispered Chris.

When she stood up again, though her eyes were shining through tears, she

was smiling also.

"Your friend and mine, Trevor," she murmured. "May I--may I kiss him just

once? I never have before."

"Of course you may," he said.

She bent again, bent till her lips just touched the dead man's brow.

"I won't disturb you, _preux chevalier_," she whispered. "Only

good-night, dear! Good-night!"

For a little while she stood looking down upon the dead man's rest; but

at length she turned away, drawing her husband with her, and went to the

open window.

Hand in hand they looked out upon a world in which "all things were made

new." They spoke no word. They thought the same thoughts together, and no

words were needed.

Only when they turned at length from the shimmering sunlight back into

the quiet room, their eyes met. And in the silence Trevor Mordaunt bent

with reverence and kissed the living, as she had kissed the dead.

CHAPTER XII

THE PROCESSION UNDER THE WINDOWS

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! The procession was passing under the windows.

Bertrand de Montville, the vindicated hero, was being borne to his

soldier's grave on the hill by the fortress. Soldiers preceded him.

Soldiers followed him. A mixed crowd of journalists--men from all parts

of Europe--came after. And from the window above, his little pal looked

down.

Max Wyndham stood beside her, the corners of his mouth drawn down and a

very peculiar expression in his green eyes. He had amazed his French

friend by refusing to follow the _cortège_. Even Chris did not know why,

for he had clothed himself in an impenetrable cloak of reserve since

Bertrand's death, and he was not apparently minded to lift it even for

her benefit.

Yet she was glad to have him with her, for Noel had elected to go with

Mordaunt; and though she was quite willing to be left alone, she found

Max's presence a help. She had seen but little of him until the moment

that they stood together looking down upon the passing procession.

It was a grey day. Down on the shore the long waves rolled in to break in

wide lines of surf up the rock-strewn beach. The thunder of their

breaking mingled with the roll of muffled drums. The full honours of a

soldier's funeral were to be accorded to the man who had died before

France could make amends.

Slowly the procession wound along the _plage_, and back upon Chris's

memory flashed the day when she and Cinders had waited at the garden gate

to see the soldiers pass. She saw again the handsome face of the young

officer marching behind his men, the sudden animation leaping into it at

sight of her, the eagerness with which he turned to greet her, his

momentary hesitation at her request, his smiling surrender. What would

have happened, she asked herself, if he had managed to resist her that

day? Had that been the beginning of his downfall? Might he otherwise

have passed on unscathed?

A sudden sense of coldness assailed her. The street below was empty. She

stood alone. She leaned her head against the window-frame. How grey it

was!

"Sit down!" said Max practically.

She started. "Oh, Max!" she said weakly.

"Here you are," he said, and guided her down into a chair. "That's the

way. Now lean back and shut your eyes."

She obeyed him, without question, as she always did. A vague sense of

consolation began to steal through her. His hand, holding hers, dispelled

the loneliness.

After a while she opened her eyes and found him watching her. "Oh, Max,"

she said, "I'm so glad you are here."

"It seems as well," he rejoined, rather grimly. "Don't you think it's

time you began to behave rationally?"

"Have I been very silly?" she asked.

"Very, I should say." He sat down on the arm of her chair, and drew her

head to lean against him, a very rare demonstration with him.

She relaxed with a sigh. "I can't help it," she said wistfully. "I used

to think life was just splendid--it was good to be alive. And now--I

sometimes wish I'd never been born."

"Which is a mistake," said Max. "There's no time for that sort of thing.

Besides, it's futile. Now, don't cry! That's futile, too, when there is

anything else to be done. I don't suppose Trevor will be feeling

particularly jolly when he gets back from this show--though there's

something rather funny about it to my mind--and you'll have to cheer him

up. I suppose you won't be upset if I smoke?"

"What can you see funny in it?" questioned Chris.

He lighted his cigarette before replying. "My dear girl," he said then,

"I can't endow you with a sense of humour if you don't possess one. But

all this pomp and circumstance has got its funny side, I assure you.

Bertrand saw that; he was a philosopher. If he were here now, he would

snap his fingers and laugh."

"He might," Chris admitted. "At least, he called it a dream in the midst

of a great Reality."

"Which it is," said Max. "Get outside it all. Get above it if you can.

And you will see. Come, you mustn't grizzle. You don't seriously suppose

you've lost anything, do you?" He looked down at her suddenly, with a

smile in his shrewd eyes. "I say, you must get rid of that idea," he

said. "Even I know better than that. I believe in my own way I was almost

as fond of him as you were. But I knew he was going long ago, and that

nothing on earth could stop him. He knew it too. Between ourselves, I

don't think he much wanted to stop. But there was nothing unwholesome

about him. He wasn't a shirker. He played the game. And now you're going

to play it, eh? You're going to buck up. You're going to give Trevor a

sample of what the Wyndhams can do. I know we're a rotten tribe, but

we've got our points. In Heaven's name, let's make the most of 'em!"

He bent abruptly and kissed her.

"Life's all right," he said. "And so's the world. But you've got to get

used to the idea that it's not a place to stay in. It's no good sitting

down by the wayside to cry. You've got to look on ahead and keep moving.

It's the only possible way. If you don't, you get buried in every

sand-storm."

Chris reached up her arms and clasped him very tightly. "Max, tell me

Love doesn't die!"

"It doesn't," said Max stoutly.

"You are sure? You are sure?"

"Yes, I am sure."

"How do you know? Tell me--tell me!"

Chris's voice was piteous. Yet for a moment he was silent. Then, "I

know," he said, "by the way that chap faced death."

"Because he wasn't afraid?" she whispered. "Because he died so easily?"

"Because he didn't die," said Max.

* * * * *

Late that night the clouds passed, and a new moon rose behind the

fortress and threw a golden shimmer over the sea. The waves were washing

over the rocks with a deep, mysterious murmuring. To Chris, kneeling at

her window, it was as if they were trying to tell her a secret. She had

knelt down to pray, but her thoughts had wandered, and somehow she could

not call them back. Almost in spite of herself, she went in spirit over

the rocks till she came to the Magic Cave. And here she would have

entered, but could not, for the tide was rising and barred her out.

"Not there, _mignonne_," said a soft voice at her side.

She turned her head. Surely he had spoken in the stillness! Surely it was

no dream!

But the action brought her back, back to the shadowy room, and the

moonlit sea, and the prayer that was still little more than a vague

longing in her heart.

She uttered a brief sigh, and rose. And in that moment she found herself

face to face with her husband.

"Trevor!" she said, startled.

He was standing close to her, and suddenly she knew that he had been

there for some time, waiting for her to rise.

Her first impulse was one of nervous irresolution, but it possessed her

for a moment only. With scarcely a pause she went straight into his arms.

"I'm so glad you've come," she whispered. "Isn't the sea lovely? Have

you--have you seen the new moon?"

He held her in silence, and she heard the beating of his heart, strong

and steady, where she had pillowed her head. She turned her face upwards

after a little.

"Trevor, do you remember, long ago, how we saw the new moon together--and

you wished? Have you wished this time?"

"It is always the same wish with me," he said.

"What! Hasn't it come true yet?" She leaned her head back to see his face

the better. "Trevor," she said, "are you sure it hasn't come true?"

She saw his faint smile in the moonlight. "I think I should know if it

had, dear."

"I'm not so sure," said Chris. "Men are very silly. They never see

anything that isn't absolutely in black and white, and not always then.

Tell me what it was you wished for."

But he shook his head. "That isn't fair, is it? If the gods hear, it will

be struck off the list at once."

"Never mind the gods," said Chris despotically. "I'll get it for you

somehow--even if they do. Now tell me! Whisper!" She drew down his head

and waited expectantly.

"What a ghastly predicament!" he said.

"Trevor! Don't laugh! I'm not laughing."

"I'm sorry," he said. "But really I can't afford to run any risks of that

sort."

"Then you still think you may get it?" questioned Chris.

"I think it possible--if the gods are kind."

"My dear," she said suddenly, "let's leave off joking. If it's something

you're wanting very badly, why don't you--pray for it?"

"I am praying for it, sweetheart," he said.

"Oh, Trevor, tell me! And I'll pray, too."

She wound her arms persuasively about his neck. Her face was very sweet

in the moonlight. The deep-sea eyes were very tender.

He looked into them and yielded. "Chris, I am praying for the love of the

woman I love."

"Oh, but, Trevor--Trevor--"

"Yes," he said, and his voice vibrated upon a deeper note--a note that

was passionate. "I want more than a little, my Chris. But I will be

patient. I will wait all my life long if I must. Only--O God, let me win

it at last!"

He stopped. She was looking at him strangely, and there was something

about her that he had never seen before--something that compelled.

"But, Trevor dearest," she said, "it was yours long--long ago. Oh, don't

you understand? How shall I make you understand?"

She clasped him closer. The moonlight was shining in her eyes--the eyes

of a woman who had come through suffering into peace.

"My darling," she said, "before God, I am telling you the truth. If you

hadn't come back to me, I should have broken my heart."

He took her head between his hands. He bent his face to hers, looking

deep into those shining, unswerving eyes.

"Won't you believe me?" she pleaded. "Dear, I couldn't lie to you if I

tried. Must I put it more plainly still? Then listen! You are more to me

now than Bertie ever was. I do not say more than he might have been. But

we can't put back the clock. I wouldn't if I could. No--no, not even to

live again those old happy days. Trevor, do you understand now, dear? For

if you don't, not even Aunt Philippa could be harder to convince. I am

yours. I am yours. The other was a dream that can only come true in

Paradise. But this is our Reality--yours and mine. And I can't live

without you. I want you so. I love you so. Trevor--my husband!"

Her lips quivered suddenly, but in that moment his found them and

possessed them. She gave herself to him in complete surrender, as she had

given herself on their wedding-night. Yet with a difference. For she

throbbed in his arms; she thrilled to his touch. She opened to him the

doors of her soul, and drew him within...

"And now you understand?" she whispered to him later.

"Yes--I understand," he said.

She laid her head again upon his breast. "To understand all is to forgive

all," she said.

To which he answered softly, "But there is nothing to forgive."

THE END

By Ethel M. Dell

The Way of an Eagle

The Hundredth Chance

The Knave of Diamonds

The Safety Curtain

The Rocks of Valpré

Greatheart

The Swindler

The Lamp in the Desert

The Keeper of the Door

The Tidal Wave

Bars of Iron

The Top of the World

Rosa Mundi

The Odds and Other Stories

The Obstacle Race

Charles Rex