as little more than memory. It was
gone, and could not come again.

"I have not come here to talk with you, child," he answered quietly.
"My errand has been with Madame de Merteuill, and it is accomplished,
I go now. Paul de Vaux, our ways lie together for a mile or more, and
I have a word to say to you. Let us go."

Paul was slowly recovering from a state of mental stupor, and, with
his discovery, something of the glamour of his late intoxication was
passing away. He had no regret, there was nothing which he would have
recalled; but his eyes were stronger to pierce the mists, and he was
able to bring the weight of impersonal thought to bear upon all that
had passed between Adrea and himself. Wheresoever it might lead, there
was a tie between them now which could not be lightly severed.

"It is time I went," Paul answered. "Adrea, I will come and see you
to-morrow."

She looked at the priest, suspicious and troubled. "What does he want
with you, Paul?" she whispered. "Don't go with him!"

"I must!" he answered sadly. "He has something to say to me which I
wish to hear. I will come and see you to-morrow."

"If you must, then, until to-morrow. But, Paul!"

She drew him on one side. "Beware of him! Oh! beware of him!" she
said quickly, her eyes full of fear. "He is a fanatic, a Jesuit. Don't
trust him! Have little to say to him. Hush! don't answer me! He is
watching. Good-night, beloved! my beloved!"

CHAPTER XVII

"IF LOVE YOU CHOOSE, THEN LOVE SHALL BE YOUR RUIN"

Paul and his companion walked down the avenue in silence, and turned
into the narrow, stony road which wound across the moor. The storm was
over, and the rain had ceased. Above them, only faintly visible, as
though seen through a canopy of delicate lace, the stars were shining
in a cloudless sky through the wreaths of faint grey mist. Far off,
the sound of the sea came rolling across the moor to their ears, now
loud and threatening as it beat against the iron cliffs and thundered
up the coombs, now striking a shriller note as the huge waves, ever
beaten off, retreated, dragging beach and shingle with them. It
had been an ocean gale, and the very air was salt and brackish with
flavours of the sea. Here and there great piles of seaweed had been
carried in a heterogeneous mass to their feet, and the ground beneath
them was soft and sandy. But the storm had died away as suddenly as it
had come. The tall, stark pine trees, which a few hours ago h