sed and chilled in her abhorrence of that flood of blood. For her
he had gone into that lair of murderous, defiant men, for her he had
borne the crash of that ball just over his heart. For there he had worn
the badge--just over his honest heart. Perhaps because she had thought
his terrible work had been unjustified, as the spiteful and vicious
told, she had recoiled from him, and the recollection of him standing on
grim guard among the sanguinary wreckage of that awful place. If he had
known any other way, he had said; if he had known!

Not for the mothers of Ascalon, of whom he had spoken tenderly; not for
the men who came cringing to beg their redemption from the terror and
oppression of the lawless at his hand. Not for them. But for her. So he
had said not half an hour past.

But he had said no word to remind her where reminder was needed, not an
accusation had he uttered where accusation was so much deserved, that
would bring back to her the plain, hard fact that it was at her earnest
appeal he had undertaken the regeneration of that place.

On the other hand, he had spoken as if he had assumed the task
voluntarily, to give her the security that she now enjoyed. She had sent
him to this work, expecting him to escape the curse of blood that had
fallen. But she had not shown him the means. And when it fell on him,
saddening his generous heart, she had fled like an ingrate from the
sight of his stern face. Now he was gone, leaving her to the
consideration of these truths, which came rushing in like false
reserves, too late.

She put out the light and sat by the open window, the scarred badge
between her hands, warming it tenderly as if to console the hurt he had
suffered, wondering if this were indeed the end. This evidence in her
hand was like an absolution; it left him without a stain. The
justification was there presented that removed her deep-seated
abhorrence of his deed. In defense of his own life he had struck them
down. His life; most precious and most dear. And he was gone.

Was this, indeed, the end? For her romance that had lifted like a bright
flower in an unexpected place for a little day, perhaps; for Ascalon,
not the end. Something of unrest, as an impending storm, something of
the night's insecurity, troubled her as she sat by the window and told
her this. The sense of peace that had made her nights sweet was gone; a
vague terror seemed growing in the silent dark.

This feeling attended her when s