in the misty
morning. In this semi-dreamlike state it seemed to her as if she must be
able to distinguish the sound of _his_ horse's hoofs from among a
thousand others: it seemed as if something in herself must tell her
quite plainly where he was, what he did, when he got to horse, which way
he went. And presently she closed her eyes against the grey, monotonous
light, and during one brief moment she felt deliciously conscious of a
sweet, protecting presence somewhere near her, of soft whisperings of
fondness and of friendship: the sound of a dream-voice reached her ear
and once again as in the sweet-scented alcove she felt herself
murmuring: "Who calls?" and once more she heard the tender wailing as of
a stricken soul in pain: "A poor heart-broken wretch who could not keep
away from your side."

And memory-echoes lingered round her, bringing back every sound of his
mellow voice, every look in his eyes, the touch of his hand--oh! that
exquisite touch!--and his last words before he asked her to dance:
"With every drop of my blood, with every nerve, every sinew, every
thought I love you."

And her heart with a long-drawn-out moan of unconquerable sorrow sent
out into the still morning air its agonised call in reply:

"Come back, my love, come back! I cannot live without you! You have
taught me what Love is--pure, selfless and protecting--you cannot go
from me now--you cannot. In the name of that Love which your tender
voice has brought into being, come back to me. Do not leave me
desolate!"

CHAPTER IX

THE TARPEIAN ROCK

I

Rain, rain! all the morning! God's little tool--innocent-looking little
tool enough--for the remodelling of the destinies of this world.

God chose to soak the earth on that day--and the formidable artillery
that had swept the plateau of Austerlitz, the vales of Marengo, the
cemetery of Eylau, was rendered useless for the time being because up in
the inscrutable kingdom of the sky a cloud had chosen to burst--or had
burst by the will of God--and water soaked the soft, spongy soil of
Belgium and the wheels of artillery wagons sank axle-deep in the mud.

If only the ground had been dry! if only the great gambler--the genius,
the hero, call him what you will, but the gambler for all that--if only
he had staked his crown, his honour and that of Imperial France on some
other stake than his artillery! If only . . . ! But who shall tell?

Is it indeed a cloud-burst that changed the whol