e!
No one shall hurt you again. Never again! No, by the Lord God!"

And then suddenly--as suddenly as the moment of intoxication had come to
me--I awoke from my delirium. Some little thing awakened me. I hardly
know what it was. Perhaps it was only the striking of the cuckoo clock
in my room.

"What are we doing?" I said.

Everything had rolled back on me--my marriage, Father Dan's warning, my
promise to Martin's mother.

"Where are we?" I said.

"Hush! Don't speak," said Martin. "Let us think of nothing
to-night--nothing except our love."

"Don't say that," I answered. "We are not free to love each other," and
then, trying to liberate myself from his encircling arms I cried:

"God help me! God forgive me!"

"Wait!" said Martin, holding me a moment longer. "I know what you feel,
and I'm not the man to want a girl to wrong her conscience. But there's
one question I must ask you. If you _were_ free, could you love me
then?"

"Don't ask me that. I must not answer it."

"You must and shall," said Martin. "Could you?"

"Yes."

"That's enough for me--enough for to-night anyway. Have no fear. All
shall be well. Go to your room now."

He raised me to my feet and led me back to the foot of the balcony, and
there he kissed my hand and let me go.

"Good night!" he said softly.

"Good night!" I answered.

"God bless you, my pure sweet girl!"

At the next moment I was in my room, lying face down on my bed--seeing
no hope on any side, and sobbing my heart out for what might have been
but for the hard law of my religion and the cruel tangle of my fate.

SIXTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

Next morning, Monday morning, while I was breakfasting in my bedroom,
Price came with a message from Martin to say that he was going into the
glen and wished to know if I would go with him.

I knew perfectly what that meant. He wished to tell me what steps he
intended to take towards my divorce, and my heart trembled with the
thought of the answer I had to give him--that divorce for me, under any
circumstances, was quite impossible.

Sorry as I was for myself I was still more sorry for Martin. I felt
like a judge who had to pronounce sentence upon him--dooming his dearest
hopes to painful and instant death.

I could hear him on the lawn with Tommy the Mate, laughing like a boy
let loose from school, and when I went down to him he greeted me with a
cry of joy that was almost heart-breaking.

Our way to the glen was through a f