away, Lute. I have not
the strength to go myself."

"But why should you go away?" she asked. "Besides, I must know why,
before I can send you away."

"Don't ask me."

"Tell me," she said, her voice tenderly imperative.

"Don't, Lute; don't force me," the man pleaded, and there was appeal in
his eyes and voice.

"But you must tell me," she insisted. "It is justice you owe me."

The man wavered. "If I do..." he began. Then he ended with
determination, "I should never be able to forgive myself. No, I cannot
tell you. Don't try to compel me, Lute. You would be as sorry as I."

"If there is anything... if there are obstacles... if this mystery does
really prevent..." She was speaking slowly, with long pauses, seeking
the more delicate ways of speech for the framing of her thought. "Chris,
I do love you. I love you as deeply as it is possible for any woman to
love, I am sure. If you were to say to me now 'Come,' I would go with
you. I would follow wherever you led. I would be your page, as in the
days of old when ladies went with their knights to far lands. You are my
knight, Chris, and you can do no wrong. Your will is my wish. I was once
afraid of the censure of the world. Now that you have come into my life
I am no longer afraid. I would laugh at the world and its censure for
your sake--for my sake too. I would laugh, for I should have you, and
you are more to me than the good will and approval of the world. If you
say 'Come,' I will--"

"Don't! Don't!" he cried. "It is impossible! Marriage or not, I cannot
even say 'Come.' I dare not. I'll show you. I'll tell you."

He sat up beside her, the action stamped with resolve. He took her hand
in his and held it closely. His lips moved to the verge of speech. The
mystery trembled for utterance. The air was palpitant with its presence.
As if it were an irrevocable decree, the girl steeled herself to hear.
But the man paused, gazing straight out before him. She felt his hand
relax in hers, and she pressed it sympathetically, encouragingly. But
she felt the rigidity going out of his tensed body, and she knew that
spirit and flesh were relaxing together. His resolution was ebbing. He
would not speak--she knew it; and she knew, likewise, with the sureness
of faith, that it was because he could not.

She gazed despairingly before her, a numb feeling at her heart, as
though hope and happiness had died. She watched the sun flickering down
through the warm-trunked redwoods. B