"You certainly tried hard enough to convince me that you didn't," she
interrupted ruefully.

"Yes, I tried. And I failed. And now, all that remains is for me to go
away. I shall never forgive myself for having brought pain into your
life--I, who would so gladly have brought only happiness. . . . God
in Heaven!"--he whispered to himself as though the thought were almost
blinding in the promise of ecstasy it held--"To have been the one to
bring you happiness! . . ." He fell silent, his mouth wrung and twisted
with pain.

Presently her voice came to him again, softly supplicating. "I shall
never forgive you--if you go away and leave me," she added. "I can't do
without you now--now that I know you care."

"But I _must_ go! I can't marry you--you haven't understood--"

"Haven't I?" She smiled--a small, wise, wonderful smile that began
somewhere deep in her heart and touched her lips and lingered in her
eyes.

"Tell me," she said. "Are you married, Garth?"

He started.

"Married! God forbid!"

"And if you married me, would you be wronging any one?"

"Only you yourself," he answered grimly.

"Then nothing else matters. You are free--and I'm free. And I love you!"

She leaned towards him, her hands outheld, her mouth still touched with
that little, mystic smile. "Please--tell me all over again now much you
love me."

But no answering hands met hers. Instead, he drew away from her and
faced her, stern-lipped.

"I must make you understand," he said. "You don't know what it is that
you are asking. I've made shipwreck of my life, and I must pay the
penalty. But, by God, I'm not going to let you pay it, too! And if you
married me, you would have to pay. You would be joining your life to
that of an outcast. I can never go out into the world as other men
may. If I did"--slowly--"if I did, sooner or later I should be driven
away--thrust back into my solitude. I have nothing to offer--nothing
to give--only a life that has been cursed from the outset. Don't
misunderstand me," he went on quickly. "I'm not complaining, bidding
for your sympathy. If a man's a fool, he must be prepared to pay for his
folly--even though it means a life penalty for a moment's madness. And
I shall have to pay--to the uttermost farthing. Mine's the kind of debt
which destiny never remits." He paused; then added defiantly: "The woman
who married me would have to share in that payment--to go out with me
into the desert in which I lie, and she wo