kenham the key that Sir Richard Pakenham of England lately held. I
told you a woman pays, _body_ and soul! In what coin fate gave me, I
will pay it. You think my morals mixed. No, I tell you I am clean! I
have only bought my own peace with my own conscience! Now, at last,
Helena von Ritz knows why she was born, to what end! I have a work to
do, and, yes, I see it now--my journey to America after all was part of
the plan of fate. I have learned much--through you, Monsieur."

Hurriedly she turned and left me, passing through the heavy draperies
which cut off the room where stood the great satin couch. I saw her cast
herself there, her arms outflung. Slow, deep and silent sobs shook all
her body.

"Madam! Madam!" I cried to her. "Do not! Do not! What you have done here
is worth a hundred millions of dollars, a hundred thousand of lives,
perhaps. Yes, that is true. It means most of Oregon, with honor, and
without war. That is true, and it is much. But the price paid--it is
more than all this continent is worth, if it cost so much as that Nor
shall it!"

Black, with a million pin-points of red, the world swam around me.
Millions of dead souls or souls unborn seemed to gaze at me and my
unhesitating rage. I caught up the scroll which bore England's
signature, and with one clutch cast it in two pieces on the floor. As it
lay, we gazed at it in silence. Slowly, I saw a great, soft radiance
come upon her face. The red pin-points cleared away from my own vision.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE STORY OF HELENA VON RITZ

There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire,
which beams and blazes in the dark hours of adversity.--_Washington
Irving_.

"But Madam; but Madam--" I tried to begin. At last, after moments which
seemed to me ages long, I broke out: "But once, at least, you promised
to tell me who and what you are. Will you do that now?"

"Yes! yes!" she said. "Now I shall finish the clearing of my soul. You,
after all, shall be my confessor."

We heard again a faltering footfall in the hallway. I raised an eyebrow
in query.

"It is my father. Yes, but let him come. He also must hear. He is indeed
the author of my story, such as it is.

"Father," she added, "come, sit you here. I have something to say to Mr.
Trist."

She seated herself now on one of the low couches, her hands clasped
across its arm, her eyes looking far away out of the little window,
beyond which could be seen the hills