bare and
contemplate his love for her, that she might feel more poignantly the
happiness she had lost. But he abruptly turned again to leave, and all
else was forgotten in terror.

"You go to that Tiger!" she cried. "Do you not know that----" She darted
between him and the door--"that he recognizes no rules of war? He will
shoot you, he will, he will!"

Driscoll laughed.

"Oh, I'll be safe enough all right, thank you. Dupin holds Rodrigo, we
hold you. So it's simply an exchange of prisoners. And he'll not do
anything to me, for fear of what might happen to you here. You're not a
hostage, sure not, but as long as he thinks so, I'll profit by it."

"You are right," she admitted, yet not heeding his anxiety to pass.
"Dupin will not even detain you. He will judge you Missou-riens by
himself. So, voila, he frees Diavolo. He comes for me. And--and you,
monsieur?"

"Me? W'y, I'll wait for the boys at Dupin's camp, after he takes charge
here. Then we'll march."

"And--you do not come back?"

"No need to. Now will you please get away from that door?"

"Not coming back!" she repeated. Could the Coincidence be for naught
after all? Could not real life be for once as complacent as art? He was
going, and when, where, in the wide world, in all time, might they ever
meet again? And he was going, like that! Except for her, he would not
even have spoken.

But--if he were the man to hold her, despite herself? If he were primal
man of primal nature, the demigod raptor who seizes his mate? Yes, she
would forgive him--if only he were that man. If, as such, he would but
hold her from her duty, from her sacrifice, despite herself,
if--if--if----And so her daring fancy raced, raced as desire and hope to
outrun sorrow. And why not? She could look him in the eye with that
honesty which pertains to woman, for she knew that the shame he thought
of her was only in the evidence of what he had seen, of what he had
heard the world say, and not--no, not in fact. And for the kindness of
that fact she thanked Providence. Then, daring to the end, her insane
hope for happiness gave her to remember that there was a clergyman among
these Americans, and to see in that the ordering of fate.

But Reality was still there, grim and greater than either Providence or
Art. The man was waiting for her to step aside, and when she did, he
would pass through the door and out of her life. She gazed, as for the
last time, on his stalwart shoulders, on his sp