rce of
circumstances I lived with this other woman very closely for some
months. We foresaw no immediate release. I loved her, and she loved
me--the only time I knew what love really meant, I admit it. We made
this contract of marriage between us. It was never enforced. We never
were married, because that contract was never signed by us both. Here it
is. Examine it."

It lay there before us. I saw its words again stare up at me. I saw
again the old pictures of the great mountains; and the cloudless sky,
and the cities of peace wavering on the far horizon. I gazed once more
upon that different and more happy world, when I saw, blurring before my
eyes, the words--_"I, John Cowles--I, Ellen Meriwether--take thee--take
thee--for better, for worse--till death do us part."_ I saw her name,
"_E-l-l-e-n_."

"Harry," said I, turning on him swiftly. "Your father is old. This is
for you and me, I think. I shall be at your service soon."

His face paled. But that of his father was now gray, very old and gray.

"Treachery!" he murmured. "Treachery! You slighted my girl. My God, sir,
she should not marry you though she died! This--" he put out his hand
toward the hide scroll.

"No," I said to him. "This is mine. The record of my fault belongs to
me. The question for you is only in regard to the punishment.

"We are four men here," I added, presently, "and it seems to me that
first of all we owe protection to the woman who needs it. Moreover, I
repeat, that though her error is not mine, it was perhaps pride or
sorrow or anger with me which led her to her own fault. It was Gordon
Orme who told her that I was false to her, and added lies about me and
this other woman. It was Gordon Orme, Colonel Sheraton, I do not
doubt--sir, _I found him in your yard, here, at midnight_, when I last
was here. And, sir, there was a light--a light--" I tried to smile,
though I fear my face was only distorted. "I agreed with your daughter
that it was without question a light that some servant had left by
chance at a window."

I wish never to hear again such a groan as broke from that old man's
lips. He was sunken and broken when he put out his hand to me. "Boy,"
said he, "have mercy. Forgive. Can you--could you--"

"Can you yourself forgive this?" I answered, pointing to the scroll. "I
admit to you I love Ellen Meriwether yet, and always will. Sir, if I
married your daughter, it could only be to leave her within the hour."

Silence fell upon al