cursed and left him.

But all at once, finding himself alone, to horror came fear, and
stumbling to his feet Spike began to draw away from that awful thing
that held his gaze; slowly he retreated, always going backwards, and
though he stumbled often against tree and sapling, yet so long as it was
in sight needs must he walk backwards. When at last a kindly bush hid it
from his sight, he turned and ran--ran until, panting and wild-eyed, he
burst from the wood and was out upon the open road. Even then he paused
to stare back into that leafy gloom but saw and heard nothing. Then,
uttering a moan, he turned and ran sobbing along the darkening road.

But, within that place of shadows, from amid the leaves of a certain
great tree, dropped one who came beside that motionless form, and knelt
there awhile. When at last he rose, a ring lay upon his open palm--a
ring in the shape of two hands clasping each other; then, with this
clenched in a pallid fist, he also turned and left that still and awful
thing with its face hidden in last year's dead and rotting leaves.

CHAPTER XXXIV

OF REMORSE

For three miserable days Spike had remained indoors, eating little,
sleeping less, venturing abroad only at dusk to hurry back with the
latest paper and, locked within his bedroom, to scan every scare head
and column with eyes dilating in dreadful expectation of beholding the
awful word--MURDER.

For three interminable days Hermione, going about her many duties slow
of foot and listless, had scarcely heeded him, conscious only of her own
pain, the agony of longing, the yearning ache that filled her, throbbing
in every heart-beat--an ache that would not be satisfied. Thus, lost in
her own new sorrow, she spoke seldom, sighed often, and sang not at all;
often sitting at her sewing machine with hands strangely idle and gaze
abstracted. Spike, watching furtively, had seen her eyes brim over with
great, slow-falling tears; more than once he had heard her bitter
weeping in the dawn. At such times he had yearned to comfort her, but
between them was memory, dividing them like a wall--the memory of a
still form with arms wide-tossed and face hidden among dead leaves. And
at such times Spike writhed in the grip of horror and groaned under the
gnawing fangs of remorse; sometimes he prayed wild, passionate prayers,
and sometimes he wetted his pillow with unavailing tears, while in his
ears, like a small voice, soft and insistent, repeated