beat high. She saw Ralph's face, a face clouded with grief but yet
lightened by a supernal glow. She slipped from her pony and with bowed
head waited for the covered burden to pass by. Then her eyes were raised
to Ralph's; her hand was in his.

"It is all over, Helen; but his death was glorious. It was worth a
thousand lives."

Her hand in Ralph's, she heard the story of Elijah's life redeemed in
death. Tears welled from her eyes and fell silently down her cheeks.

Ralph was drawing her nearer; his arm was around her.

"I know all now, Helen." He would have said more but she checked him
gently.

"No; you do not know all. I must tell you. I must." She was trying to
free herself.

"I want you to tell me just one thing."

"I must. Then--" her eyes met his bravely.

He laid his fingers gently on her lips.

"I know what you would tell me, but I do not care to hear. I will not
listen, Helen. Don't you believe that I know myself, that I know you?"

She hid her face in her hands.

"Ralph."

"Stop!" Ralph's voice was strong and commanding. "Every word you speak
condemns me."

Slowly the hands dropped from the face that was now raised to his. The
great, dark eyes were deep with questioning hope. The lips trembled with
a smile that a breath would fan into life.

"I must obey my master."

Ralph's face was close to hers. His voice was low and strong.

"Then tell me that you love me."

"I love you. With all my heart and soul and strength, I love you."

Gently she put him aside.

"Let me go now, Ralph. I must be with Amy."

CHAPTER THIRTY

A woman was standing beside an iron gate all but hidden in a riotous
growth of blossoming vines that opened upon a grass-grown mound.

"To the memory of Elijah Berl."

"He shall make the desert blossom as the rose"--was graven on the bronze
plate.

Far below her, and on either side, instead of the bare, brown hillsides
of a few, short years ago, grew rank on rank, leaves of glossy green,
flecked with tawny gold. Here and there, red-tiled houses, their walls
all but covered with climbing roses, stood at the head of marshalled
groves. Shining lines moved out and in, where the waters of the Sangre
de Cristo sank into the red earth and sprang upwards in fruit and
flower. The air was resonant with happy bird notes that trilled from
tree to tree as the tiny musicians with swelling throats poured out the
happiness that their little bodies could not contain.

There