Christian's sullen mood; of the dark something
attending below, that he knew, that he watched; of his unfinished attempt
at murder.

'That we knew,' she said.

Told in the dark by one who had lived through them, nearly died through
them, whose voice yet acknowledged the terror of them,--circumstances
were these of no vague indication to Rhoda. The reality of that dark
implication stirred her hair, chilled her blood, loosened her joints; yet
her faith in Christian did not fall.

But no word had she to say to refute the dreadful accusation; no word for
Philip; no word for an adverse world. And what word for his mother? Her
heart died within her.

The most signal evidence sufficient for her own white trust was a kiss, a
close embrace, hard upon the naming of Diadyomene. She had no shame to
withhold it; but too likely, under his mother's eye, discount would offer
were maiden blood quick to her face when she urged her tale.

She knew that an ominous hum was against Christian, because he had
struck, and swum, and escaped as no other man could; she guessed how the
roar went now because of Philip's evidence. How inconsiderable the wrong
of it all was, outdone if one injurious doubt his mother's heart
entertain.

To hatred and to love an equal disregard death opposed. No menace could
disturb, no need could disturb the absolute repose Christian had entered.
She envied his heart its quiet in an unknown grave.

'Be a little kind, Rhoda; be only just; say I was not to blame.'

She could not heed.

'Why do you hate me so? For your sake I freely forgive Christian all he
has done; for your sake I would have been his friend, his brother, in
spite of all. O Rhoda, what can I do?'

'Let be,' she said, 'for you can undo nothing now. If I saw you
kneeling--no, not before me--but contrite, praying: "God be merciful to
me, for by thought and word and deed I have sinned against the noblest,
the worthiest," then, then only, far from hate, I think I could almost
love.'

No indignation was aflame with the words; the weary voice was so sad and
so hopeless as to assure Philip she spoke of one dead.

'All I can do now is to pray God to keep me from cursing you and the
world for your working of a cruel wrong that can never be ended.' Her
voice pitched up on a strain. 'Oh, leave me, leave me, lest I have not
grace enough to bear with you!'

Philip, daring no more, stood and heard the hasty, uneven steps further
and die. His eyes were