And he--he let me go. He saw it too--at least he
understood. And on that very night--oh, Will, that awful night--he
went to his death."
His arms grew closer about her. "My poor girl!" he said.
"Ah, but you shouldn't!" she sobbed. "You shouldn't! You ought to hate
me--to despise me."
"Hush!" he said again. And she knew that with that one word he
resolutely turned his back upon the gulf that had opened between them
during those twenty months--that gulf that his love had been great
enough to bridge--and that he took her with him, bruised and broken
and storm-tossed as she was, into a very sheltered place.
When presently he turned her face up to his own and gravely kissed her
she clung to his neck like a tired child, no longer fearing to meet
his look, only thankful for the comfort of his arms.
For a while longer he held her silently, then very quietly he began
to question her about her journey. Had she told him that she had been
putting up at the dak-bungalow?
"Oh, only for a few hours," she answered. "We arrived this evening,
Nick and I."
"Nick!" he said. "And you left him behind?"
"He is waiting to take me back," she murmured, her face hidden against
his shoulder.
Again, very tenderly, his hand pressed her forehead. "He must come to
us, eh, dear? I will sent the _khit_ down with a note presently.
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