deserved it, that
would come. It was enough that she had given him back his dreams, that
she had taken him back to those fragrant days when his uncrusted soul
had known without knowing. It was enough that the sweetness of her had
become an inseparable part of him for evermore. She was his now, even
though he should never again lay eyes upon her. The only relief he had
was in the thought that she had accomplished this without committing
herself. At least he did not have the burden of her tender love upon
his soul further to complicate matters.

So much he admitted frankly; so much was fact. The problem which now
confronted him was how he could best escape from involving her at all
in the inevitable climax--how he could make his escape without
destroying in her the ideals with which she had surrounded him and
which she had a right to keep. He owed this to her, to Arsdale, and to
the world of men.

A dozen times he was upon the point of pushing out into the dark. If
he had followed his own impulse he would have taken some broad road and
footed it hour after hour, through the night, through the next day,
through the next night, and so till the end overtook him, striking him
down in his tracks. He would get as far away as possible, keeping out
under the broad expanse of the sky above. He could find rest only by
taking a course straight on over the hills, turning aside for nothing,
tearing a path through the tangle.

But he still had his work to do. He must lend his strength to the boy
so long as any strength was left. He must pound into him again and
again the realization of life which he himself had been tempted to
shirk. He must make him see,--must make him know. In recalling that
scene in the room by the window, in recalling his own words to Arsdale,
he felt strangely enough the force of his own thoughts entering into
himself with new life. He listened as it were to himself. Even for
him there were the Others. Down to the last arrow-sped minute there
would still be the Others. Who knew what remained for him to
do--charged with what influence might be even the manner in which he
drew his last breath? If he stood up to it sturdily, if he faced death
with his head high, his shoulders back, even though he might be
cornered in his room like a rat in its hole, so the message might be
wired silently into the heart of some poor devil struggling hard
against his death throes and lend him courage.

At the e