he and I, be fitted for these high
places--yet? Now that what I desired all these years for him has come, I
have not the courage."

"You have friends to help you in all you do," he answered meaningly.

"But friends cannot always be with one," she answered.

"That depends upon the friends. There is one friend of yours who has
known you for eighteen years. Eighteen years' growth should make a
strong friendship--there was always friendship on his part at least. He
can be a still stronger and better friend. He comes now to offer you
the remainder of a life for which your own goodness is the guarantee. He
comes to offer you a love of which your own soul must be the only judge,
for you have eyes that see and a spirit that knows. The Chevalier needs
you, and the Duc de Mauban needs you, but Detricand of Vaufontaine needs
you a thousand times more."

"Oh, hush--but no, you must not!" she broke in, her face all crimson,
her lips trembling.

"But yes, I must," he answered quickly. "You find peace here, but it is
the peace of inaction. It dulls the brain, and life winds in upon itself
wearily at the last. But out there is light and fire and action and the
quick-beating pulse, and the joy of power wisely used, even to the end.
You come of a great people, you were born to great things; your child
has rights accorded now by every Court of Europe. You must act for him.
For your child's sake, for my sake come out into the great field of life
with me--as my wife, Guida."

She turned to him frankly, she looked at him steadfastly, the colour in
her face came and went, but her eyes glowed with feeling.

"After all that has happened?" she asked in a low tone.

"It could only be because of all that has happened," he answered.

"No, no, you do not understand," she said quickly, a great pain in her
voice. "I have suffered so, these many, many years! I shall never be
light-hearted again. And I am not fitted for such high estate. Do you
not see what you ask of me--to go from this cottage to a palace?"

"I love you too well to ask you to do what you could not. You must trust
me," he answered, "you must give your life its chance, you must--"

"But listen to me," she interjected with breaking tones; "I know as
surely as I know--as I know the face of my child, that the youth in
me is dead. My summer came--and went--long ago. No, no, you do not
understand--I would not make you unhappy. I must live only to make my
child happy. That love h