his tempest of rage Stampa realized this, and loosened
his grip sufficiently to give his opponent a moment of precious
breath.

"Answer!" he muttered again. "Promise you will obey, you brute, or I
crack your neck!"

Bower gurgled something that sounded like an appeal for mercy. Stampa
rose at once, but took the precaution to close the gate, since they
had rolled into the cemetery during their short fight.

"_Saperlotte!_" he cried, "you are not the first who deemed me
helpless because of my crooked leg. You might have run from me, Marcus
Bauer; you could never fight me. Were I at death's door, I would
still have strength left to throttle you if once my fingers closed
round your throat."

Bower raised himself on hands and knees. He cut an abject figure; but
he was beyond all thought of appearances. For one dread moment his
life had trembled in the balance. That glimpse of death and of the
gloomy path beyond was affrighting. He would do anything now to gain
time. Wealth, fame, love itself, what were they, each and all, when
viewed from the threshold of that barrier which admits a man once and
for ever?

In deep, laboring gasps his breath came back. The blood coursed freely
again in his veins. He lived--ah, that was everything--he still lived!
He scrambled to his feet, bare headed, yellow skinned, dazed, and
trembling. His eyes dwelt on Stampa with a new timidity. He found
difficulty in straightening his limbs. He was quite insensible of his
ridiculous aspect. His clothing, even his hair, was matted with soft
snow. In a curiously servile way, he stooped to pick up his cap.

Stampa lurched toward the tiny patch of grass from which he had
cleared the snow soon after daybreak. "Kneel here at her feet!" he
said.

Bower approached, with a slow, dragging movement. Without a word of
protest, he sank to his knees. The snow in his hair began to melt. He
passed his hands over his face as though shutting out some horrific
vision.

Stampa produced from his pocket a frayed and tattered prayer book--an
Italian edition of the Paroissien Romain. He opened it at a marked
page, and began to read the marriage ritual. Though the words were
Latin, and he was no better educated than any other peasant in the
district, he pronounced the sonorous phrases with extraordinary
accuracy. Of course, he was an Italian, and Latin was not such an
incomprehensible tongue to him as it would prove to a German or
Englishman of his class. Moreover,