ight? You are in my power."

Perpetua watched him as calmly as a martyr of old days watched the
advance of the doomsman.

"I am not in your power. I am young, and I love life, and would be glad
to grow old in the world's way. But I would rather die than live with
any stain of shame."

Robert retorted swiftly, mocking her, yet conscious, against his will,
of unfamiliar admiration of opposition to his will.

"You foolish ermine, Death's angel does not come at a girl's call."

"She who finds life hateful will find the means to end it," Perpetua
said, proudly.

"Is this your virtue?" Robert jeered. "May meekness do self-murder?"

Perpetua lifted her tearless eyes towards the painted roof, fretted with
pagan emblems.

"When I appear before the court of Heaven," she answered, quietly, "I
think I will find pardon for that sin."

All manner of strange thoughts were contending for the supremacy of
Robert's reason. Was that an aureole, strangely luminous, about her
head, or only the wealth of her red hair? Was she, indeed, as brave as
her brave phrases?

"I take you at your word," he said, more mildly. "Here is that which can
set you free from all of us."

He drew the fool's dagger from his girdle and held it to her by its
blade.

"Have you the heart to drive this home?" he asked.

Perpetua seized the hilt eagerly.

"Ay, with all my heart, into my heart," she cried, with a confidence
that he could not question. "You are the gentlest tyrant in the world,
and I will pray for you in paradise." She pressed the weapon with both
hands to her breast and bowed her head.

Robert felt certain that she would keep her word, yet the evil in him
drove him to taunt her. "You do not strike," he said.

Perpetua lifted her bright eyes, and he read in them the joy of a white
soul escaping shame. On his ears her words came like saintly music. "I
do but commend my spirit to its Maker. When it is done, of your clemency
say a prayer by me. Farewell!"

She raised the weapon in the air, and Robert's troubled soul assured him
that she meant to strike, that she meant to die. Awful influences seemed
to struggle around him, darkness striving with light. He caught at the
light. Voices were calling in his ears, urging evil, urging good. He
caught at the good.

"Stop!" he called. "I think your hand has driven a devil from my heart.
You are a saint; you have a soldier's courage; you have conquered me. I
am your servant."

Perpetua hid t