ia, and think you they can in
this land? But the children," he mused. "Rosenblatt away." With a
sudden resolve he turned to the woman. "Woman," he said, in a voice
stern and low, "could you--"

She threw herself once more at his feet in a passion of entreaty.
"Oh, my lord! Let me live for them, for them--and--for you!"

"For me?" he said coldly. "No. You have dishonoured my name.
You are wife of mine no longer. Do you hear this?"

"Yes, yes," she panted, "I hear. I know. I ask nothing for myself.
But the children, your children. I would live for them, would die
for them!"

He turned from her and gazed through the window, pondering. That
she would be faithful to the children he well knew. That she would
gladly die for him, he was equally certain. With Rosenblatt
removed, the house would be rid of the cause of her fall and her
shame. There was no one else in this strange land to whom he could
trust his children. Should death or exile take him in his work--and
these were always his companions--his children would be quite
alone. Once more he turned and looked down upon the kneeling woman.
He had no love for her. He had never loved her. Simply as a matter
of convenience he had married her, that she might care for the
children of his dead wife whom he had loved with undying and
passionate love.

"Paulina," he said solemnly, but the contempt was gone from his
voice, "you are henceforth no wife of mine; but my children I give
into your care."

Hitherto, during the whole interview, she had shed no tear,
but at these words of his she flung her arms about his knees
and burst into a passion of weeping.

"Oh, my lord! My dear lord! Oh, my lord! my lord!" she sobbed,
wildly kissing his very boots.

He drew away from her and sat down upon a bench.

"Listen," he said. "I will send you money. You will require to take
no man into your house for your support. Is there any one to whom I
could send the money for you?"

She thought for a few moments.

"There is one," she said, "but she does not love me. She will come
no longer into my house. She thinks me a bad woman." Her voice sank
low. Her face flamed a dark red.

"Aha," said the man, "I would see that woman. To-morrow you
will bring me to her. At dusk to-morrow I will pass your house.
You will meet me. Now go."

She remained kneeling in her place. Then she crawled nearer his feet.

"Oh, my lord!" she sobbed, "I have done wrong. Will you not beat
me? Beat me till the