her fate and was running to meet it; one who feared only
death, not life or anything that life could offer.

The door was not locked. Perhaps Peter was not up--not dressed. What did
that matter? What did anything matter but Peter himself?

Peter, sorting out lectures on McBurney's Point, had come across a bit
of paper that did not belong there, and was sitting by his open trunk,
staring blindly at it:--

"You are very kind to me. Yes, indeed.

"H. W."

Quite the end now, with Harmony running across the room and dropping
down on her knees among a riot of garments--down on her knees, with one
arm round Peter's neck, drawing his tired head lower until she could
kiss him.

"Oh, Peter, Peter, dear!" she cried. "I'll love you all my life if only
you'll love me, and never, never let me go!"

Peter was dazed at first. He put his arms about her rather unsteadily,
because he had given her up and had expected to go through the rest of
life empty of arm and heart. And when one has one's arms set, as one may
say, for loneliness and relinquishment it is rather difficult--Ah, but
Peter got the way of it swiftly.

"Always," he said incoherently; "forever the two of us. Whatever comes,
Harmony?"

"Whatever comes."

"And you'll not be sorry?"

"Not if you love me."

Peter kissed her on the eyes very solemnly.

"God helping me, I'll be good to you always. And I'll always love you."

He tried to hold her away from him for a moment after that, to tell her
what she was doing, what she was giving up. She would not be reasoned
with.

"I love you," was her answer to every line. And it was no divided
allegiance she promised him. "Career? I shall have a career. Yours!"

"And your music?"

She colored, held him closer.

"Some day," she whispered, "I shall tell you about that."

Late winter morning in Vienna, with the school-children hurrying home,
the Alserstrasse alive with humanity--soldiers and chimney-sweeps,
housewives and beggars. Before the hospital the crowd lines up along the
curb; the head waiter from the coffee-house across comes to the doorway
and looks out. The sentry in front of the hospital ceases pacing and
stands at attention.

In the street a small procession comes at the double quick--a handful of
troopers, a black van with tiny, high-barred windows, more troopers.

Inside the van a Bulgarian spy going out to death--a swarthy little man
with black eyes and short, thick hands, going out like a gentlema