e
pent-up feelings in both their souls let loose at last.

It was a moment which caused time and place and all other things to be
forgotten in a glory as great as though eternity had come.

"My darling, my darling!" he murmured, kissing her hair and brow and
eyelids. "Oh! the hideous cruelty that it is all too late and this must
be good-bye."

But Sabine clung to him half sobbing, telling him she could not bear it;
he must not leave her now. And so they stood clasped together, trembling
with love and misery.

"Darling," at last he besought her, while he unclasped her tender hands
from round his neck. "Darling, do not tempt me--it is frightful pain,
but I must keep my word. You had reason once to think that I was an
uncontrollable brute, but you shall not be able to do so any more. I
would never respect myself--or you--again if I let you make me faithless
to Henry now. It is cruel sorrow, but we cannot think of ourselves; you
know, we used too lightly for our own ends what should have been an
awfully sacred tie. Do you remember, Sabine, we swore to God to love and
be faithful forever--not meaning a word we said--and now we are
punished--" A great sob shook his deep voice.

"Darling child--I love you madly, madly, Sabine--dear little one--but
you and I are just driftwood, floating down the tide--not like Henry,
who is a splendid fellow of great use to England. It is impossible that
his whole life should be ruined and sacrificed for our selfishness.
Darling--" and he paused and drew her to him again fondly. "It is our
own fault. We have let the situation develop through indecision and, I
expect, wounded vanity and weakness--and now we must have strength to
abide by our words. Henry isn't young like we are, you see. I honestly
believe it would knock him right out if anything went wrong."

But Sabine clung to him still. She could think of nothing but that she
loved him, and that he was her mate and her husband, and why must she be
torn from his side for the happiness of any other man.

She was in an agony of grief. And then suddenly back to her came the
words of Pere Anselme, heavy as the stroke of doom. Yes, she had taken
matters into her own hands and presumed to direct fate, and now all that
she could do was to be true to herself and to her word. Michael was
right; they must say good-bye. Henry must not be sacrificed.

She raised her pitiful face from his breast where it was buried, and he
framed it in both his h