ars had passed.
They looked at each other and wondered by what long road calm had come
to them. Not so Natalie. Natalie was out in the night, out upon the
hills.

She climbed the highest of them all. As she stumbled up the rise, she
lifted her eyes to the stars. The stars were very high, very far, very
cold. They struck at her sight like needles.

Natalie covered her eyes. She stood on the crest of the hill. Her
glorious hair had fallen and wrapped her with its still mantle. Her
slight breast was heaving. She could hear her struggling heart pounding
at its cage. She drew a long breath. With all the strength: of her young
lungs she called: "Lew, where are you? O, Lew, you _must_ come! O, Lew,
I _need_ you!"

The low hills gave back no echo. It was not silence that swallowed her
desperate cry, but distance, overwhelming distance. She stared wide-eyed
across the plain. Suddenly faith left her. She knew that Lewis, could
not hear. She knew that she was alone. She crumpled into a little heap
on the top of the highest hill, buried her face in her soft hair, and
sobbed.

The conviction that their wilderness held Lewis no longer brought a
certain strength to Natalie's sudden womanhood. It was as though Fate
had cried to her, "The burden is all thine; take it up," and with the
same breath had given her the sure courage that comes with renunciation.
She answered Dom Francisco's wistful questioning before it could take
shape in words.

"We cannot stay," she said. "We must go. You will still help us to go."

Nature's long silences breed silence in man. Dom Francisco ceased to
question even with his eyes. He made all ready, delivered them into the
hands of trusted henchmen, and bade them God's speed. They struck out
for the sea, but not by the long road that Lewis and the stranger had
followed. There was a nearer Northern port. Toward it they set their
faces, Consolation Cottage their goal.

CHAPTER XXI

Three weeks to a day from the time he had left Lewis in Paris, as Nelton
was serving him with breakfast, Leighton received a telegram that gave
him no inconsiderable shock. The telegram was from Le Brux.

"Come at once," it said; "your son has killed me."

Leighton steadied himself with the thought that Le Brux was still alive
enough to wire before he said:

"Nelton, I'm off for Paris at once. You have half an hour to pack and
get me to Charing Cross."

Nine hours later he was taking the stairs at Le Brux's t