dark fate that threatened him; in grief at the unworthiness of a
lover. Of the two which might be the more bitter it was not mine
to judge, but I burned to gather her to me, to comfort and cherish
her, to make her one with me, and thus, whilst giving her something
of my man's height and strength, cull from her something of that
pure, noble spirit, and thus sanctify my own.

I had a moment's weakness when she spoke. I was within an ace of
advancing and casting myself upon my knees like any Lenten penitent,
to sue forgiveness. But I set the inclination down betimes. Such
expedients would not avail me here.

"What I have to say, mademoiselle," I answered after a pause, "would
justify a saint descending into, hell; or, rather, to make my
metaphor more apt, would warrant a sinner's intrusion into heaven."

I spoke solemnly, yet not too solemnly; the least slur of a sardonic
humour was in my tones.

She moved her head upon the white column of her neck, and with the
gesture one of her brown curls became disordered. I could fancy
the upward tilt of her delicate nose, the scornful curve of her lip
as she answered shortly "Then say it quickly, monsieur."

And, being thus bidden, I said quickly "I love you, Roxalanne."

Her heel beat the shimmering parquet of the floor; she half turned
towards me, her cheek flushed, her lip tremulous with anger.

"Will you say what you have to say, monsieur?" she demanded in a