our heart out, as you
tore the heart out of John Bard."

"Ah, Anthony," said the other, "my heart was torn out when you were
born; it was torn out and buried here."

And to the wild eyes of Anthony it seemed as if the great body of Drew,
so feared through the mountain-desert, was now enveloped with weakness,
humbled by some incredible burden.

After that a mist obscured his eyes; he could not see more than an
outline of the great shape before him; his throat contracted as if a
hand gripped him there, and an odd tingling came at the tips of his
fingers. He moved forward.

"It is more than I dreamed," he said hoarsely, as his foot planted
firmly on the top of the grave, and he poised himself an instant before
flinging himself on the grey giant. "It is more than I dreamed for--to
face you--alone!"

And a solemn, even voice answered him, "We are not alone."

"Not alone, but the others are too far off to stop me."

"Not alone, Anthony, for your mother is here between us."

Like a fog under a wind, the mist swept from the eyes of Anthony; he
looked out and saw that the face of the grey man was infinitely sad, and
there was a hungry tenderness that reached out, enveloped, weakened him.
He glanced down, saw that his heel was on the mount of the grave; saw
again the headstone and the time-blurred inscription: "Here sleeps Joan,
the wife of William Drew. She chose this place for rest."

A mortal weakness and trembling seized him. The wind puffed against his
face, and he went staggering back, his hand caught up to his eyes.

He closed his mind against the words which he had heard.

But the deep organ voice spoke again: "Oh, boy, your mother!"

In the stupor which came over him he saw two faces: the stern eyes of
John Bard, and the dark, mocking beauty of the face which had looked
down to him in John Bard's secret room. He lowered his hand from his
eyes; he stared at William Drew, and it seemed to him that it was John
Bard he looked upon. Their names differed, but long pain had touched
them with a common greyness. And it seemed to Anthony that it was only a
moment ago that the key turned in the lock of John Bard's secret room,
the hidden chamber which he kept like Bluebeard for himself, where he
went like Bluebeard to see his past; only an instant before he had
turned the key in that lock, the door opened, and this was the scene
which met his eyes--the grave, the blurred tombstone, and the stern
figure beyond.

"Joa