e had decided to leave him to his fate.

She who looked so gentle, was hard; she who wept at a bird's grief over
its rifled nest, was callous of suffering. She, who had seemed to love
him--he felt still her hands holding his hands against her breast--had
never loved him. She did not know what love was.

She was inhuman, a monster. He saw it at last.

There is in love a spiritual repulsion to which physical repulsion at
its worst is but a pale shadow. Those who give love to one who cannot
love may not escape the stroke of that poisoned fang. Sooner or later
that shudder has to come.

Only while we are young do we believe that the reverse of love is hate.
We learn later, and that lesson we never forget, for love alone can
teach it, that the reverse of love is egotism. The egoist cannot love.
Can we endure that knowledge and go on loving? Can we be faithful,
tender, selfless to one who exacts all and gives nothing, who forgets us
and grieves us, even as day by day we forget and grieve our unforsaking
and faithful God?

Can we endure for love of man what God endures for love of us?

The duke's words came back to Michael.

"Why do you deceive yourself, my friend? There is only one person for
whom she has a permanent and deep affection--for her very charming
self."

He had thought of her as his wife for six months and four days.

Michael beat his manacled hands against the wall till they bled. He
broke his teeth against his chains.

If Fay had come in then he would have killed her, done her to death with
the chains he had worn so patiently for her sake.

[Illustration: "IF FAY HAD COME IN THEN HE WOULD HAVE KILLED HER, DONE
HER TO DEATH WITH THE CHAINS HE HAD WORN SO PATIENTLY FOR HER SAKE"]

And that night the convict in the next cell, who had at times such wild
outbursts of impotent rage when the boats went by, heard as he lay awake
a low sound of strangled anguish, that ever stifled itself into silence,
and ever broke forth anew, from dark to dawn.

CHAPTER XV

Qui sait ce qui peut advenir de la fragilite des
femmes? Qui sait jusq'ou peut aller l'inconstance de ce
sable mouvant?--ALFRED DE MUSSET.

The Italian winter was closing in. The nights were bitter cold.

Had Michael reached at last the death of love? Was its strait gate too
narrow for him?

After that one night he held his peace, even with himself, even with the
walls of his cell. He did not sleep nor eat. He had no time to