the fears against which Ludowika had exclaimed. He lingered over
no self-accusations, the reproach of adultery. He was absolutely unable
then to think of Felix Winscombe except as a person generally
unconcerned. If he repeated silently the term husband it was without
any sense of actuality; the satirical individual in the full bottomed
wig, now absent in Maryland, had no importance in the passionate
situation that had arisen between Ludowika and himself. Felix Winscombe
would of course have to be met, dealt with; but so would a great many
other exterior conditions.

Ludowika, in her linen mask, was enigmatic, a figure of mystery. A
complete silence continued between them; at times they ambled with his
hand on her body; then the inequalities of the road forced them apart.
The clouds dissolved, the sky was immaculate, green, with dawning stars
like dim white flowers. A faint odour of the already mouldering year
rose from the wet earth. Suddenly Ludowika dragged the mask from her
face. Quivering with intense feeling she cried:

"I'm glad, Howat! Howat, I'm glad!"

He contrived to put an arm about her, crush her to him for a precarious
moment. "We have had an unforgettable day out of life," she continued
rapidly; "that is something. It has been different, strangely apart,
from all the rest. The rain and that musty little store house and the
wonderful iron; a memory to hold, carry away--"

"To carry where?" he interrupted. "You must realize that I'll never let
you go now. I will keep you if we have to go beyond the Endless
Mountains. I will keep you in the face of any man or opposition
created."

A wistfulness settled upon her out of which grew a slight hope. "I am
afraid of myself, Howat," she told him; "all that I have been, my
life--against me. But, perhaps, here, with you, it might be different.
Perhaps I would be constant. Perhaps all the while I have needed this.
Howat, do you think so? Do you think I could forget so much, drop the
past from me, be all new and happy?"

He reassured her, only half intent upon the burden of her words. He
utterly disregarded anything provisional in their position; happiness or
unhappiness were unconsidered in the overwhelming determination that she
should never leave him. No remote question of that entered his brain.
The difficulties were many, but he dismissed them with an impatient
gesture of his unoccupied hand. Gilbert Penny would be heavily
censorious; he had, Howat recognized