rt
was filled with the joy of seeing her once more. The lamps were lit,
but burning dimly. Thorne rose and turned both to their fullest
brilliancy; he must have light to see his love.

"I want to look at you, Princess," he said gently, seeking her eyes,
with a look in his not to be misunderstood; "it has been so long--so
cruelly long, my darling, since I have looked on your sweet face. You
must not call the others. For this first meeting I want but you--you
only, my love! my queen!" His voice lingered over the terms of
endearment with exquisite tenderness.

Pocahontas was silent--for her life she could not have spoken then.
Her gray eyes had an appealing, terrified look as they met his; her
trembling hands clasped and unclasped in her lap.

"How frightened you look, my darling," Thorne murmured, speaking softly
and keeping a tight rein over himself. "Your eyes are like a startled
fawn's. Have I been too abrupt--too thoughtless and inconsiderate?
You would forgive me, love, if you knew how I have longed for you; have
yearned for this meeting as Dives yearned for water--as the condemned
yearn for reprieve. Have you no smile for me, sweetheart?--no word of
welcome for the man whose heaven is your love? You knew I would come.
You knew I loved you, Princess."

"Yes;"--the word was breathed, rather than uttered, but he heard it,
and made a half movement forward, the light in his eyes glowing more
passionately. Still, he held himself in check; he would give her time.

"You knew I loved you, Princess," he repeated. "Yes, you must have
known. Love like mine could not be concealed; it _must_ burn its way
through all obstacles from my heart to yours, melting and fusing them
into one. Don't try to speak yet, love, there is no need to answer
unless you wish. I can wait--for I am near you."

Pocahontas rallied her forces resolutely, called up her pride, her
womanhood, her sense of the wrong he had done her. If she should give
way an instant--if she should yield a hair's breadth, she would be
lost. The look in his eyes, the tenderness of his voice, appeared to
sap the foundations of her resolution and to turn her heart to wax
within her.

"Why have you come?" she wailed, her tone one of passionate reproach.
"Had you not done harm enough? Why have you come?"

Thorne started slightly, but commanded himself. It was the former
marriage; the divorce; she felt it keenly--every woman must; some
cursed meddler had