e flushed
with the wonder of his love.

She slipped through the dark boughs like a moonbeam and stood by the
stone. Again he saw her quite plainly--saw and drank her in with his
eyes. He did not feel surprise--something in him had known she would
come again. He would not move a muscle lest he lose her as he had lost
her before. They looked at each other--for how long? He did not know;
and then--a horrible thing happened. Into that place of wonder and
revelation and mystery reeled a hiccoughing, laughing creature, a
drunken sailor from a harbour ship, with a leering face and
desecrating breath.

"Oh, you're here, my dear--I thought I'd catch you yet," he said.

He caught hold of her. She screamed. Roger sprang forward and struck
him in the face. In his fury of sudden rage the strength of ten seemed
to animate his slender body and pass into his blow. The sailor reeled
back and put up his hands. He was a coward--and even a brave man might
have been daunted by that terrible white face and those blazing eyes.
He backed down the path.

"Shorry--shorry," he muttered. "Didn't know she was your girl--shorry
I butted in. Shentlemans never butt in--shorry--shir--shorry."

He kept repeating his ridiculous "shorry" until he was out of the
grove. Then he turned and ran stumblingly across the field. Roger did
not follow; he went back to Isabel Temple's grave. The girl was lying
across it; he thought she was unconscious. He stooped and picked her
up--she was light and small, but she was warm flesh and blood; she
clung uncertainly to him for a moment and he felt her breath on his
face. He did not speak--he was too sick at heart. She did not speak
either. He did not think this strange until afterwards. He was
incapable of thinking just then; he was dazed, wretched, lost.
Presently he became aware that she was timidly pulling his arm. It
seemed that she wanted him to go with her--she was evidently
frightened of that brute--he must take her to safety. And then--

She moved on down the little path and he followed. Out in the moonlit
field he saw her clearly. With her drooping head, her flowing dark
hair, her great brown eyes, she looked like the nymph of a wood-brook,
a haunter of shadows, a creature sprung from the wild. But she was
mortal maid, and he--what a fool he had been! Presently he would laugh
at himself, when this dazed agony should clear away from his brain. He
followed her down the long field to the bay shore. Now and th