f natural forces and of chance gave rise
for a time to abnormal conditions of life. To kiss Dolores' lips at
such a moment: was it worse than plucking a flower that offers itself
to the hand?

They were united by the favouring darkness. They were alone in the
world; they were both young; they were free. Dolores' hands were
outstretched in despair. Should he not give her his own and obey this
delicious dizziness which was overcoming him?

"Simon," she said, in a voice of supplication. "Simon. . . . I ask so
little of you! . . . Don't refuse me. . . . It's not possible that you
should refuse me, is it? When you risked your life for mine, it was
because you had a . . . a feeling . . . a something. . . . I am not
mistaken, am I?"

Simon was silent. He would not speak to her of Isabel, would not bring
Isabel's name into the duel which they were fighting.

Dolores continued her entreaties:

"Simon, I have never loved any one but you. . . . The others . . . the
others don't count. . . . You, the look in your eyes gave me happiness
from the first moment. . . . It was like the sun shining into my life.
. . . And I should be so happy if there were a . . . a memory between
us. You would forget it. . . . It would count for nothing with you.
. . . But for me . . . it would mean life changed . . . beautified.
. . . I should have the strength to be another woman. . . . Please,
please, give me your hand. . . . Take me in your arms. . . ."

Simon did not move. Something more powerful than the impulse of the
temptation restrained him: his plighted word to Isabel and his love
for her. Isabel's image blended with Dolores's image; and, in his
faltering mind, in his darkened conscience, the conflict continued.
. . .

Dolores waited. She had fallen to her knees and was whispering
indistinct words in a language which he did not understand, words of
plaintive passion of whose distress he was fully sensible, and which
mounted to his ears like a prayer and an appeal.

In the end she fell weeping at his feet. Then he passed by, without
touching her.

The cold night air caressed his features. He walked away at a rapid
pace, pronouncing Isabel's name with the fervour of a believer
reciting the words of a litany. He turned towards the plateau. When
almost there, he lay down against the slope of the hill and, for a
long time before falling asleep, he continued to think of Dolores as
of some one whose memory was already growing dim. The gir