"Clarence!"

Her voice had changed suddenly; it was no longer bitter and stridulous,
but low and thrilling as he had heard her call to him that night in the
patio of Robles. He turned quickly. She was leaning from the bed--her
thin, white hands stretched appealingly towards him.

"Let us go together, Clarence," she said eagerly. "Let us leave this
horrible place--these wicked, cruel people--forever. Come with me! Come
with me to my people--to my own faith--to my own house--which shall be
yours! Come with me to defend it with your good sword, Clarence, against
those vile invaders with whom you have nothing in common, and who are
the dirt under your feet. Yes, yes! I know it!--I have done you wrong--I
have lied to you when I spoke against your skill and power. You are a
hero--a born leader of men! I know it! Have I not heard it from the men
who have fought against you, and yet admired and understood you, ay,
better than your own?--gallant men, Clarence, soldiers bred who did not
know what you were to me nor how proud I was of you even while I hated
you? Come with me! Think what we would do together--with one faith--one
cause--one ambition! Think, Clarence, there is no limit you might
not attain! We are no niggards of our rewards and honors--we have
no hireling votes to truckle to--we know our friends! Even
I--Clarence--I"--there was a strange pathos in the sudden humility that
seemed to overcome her--"I have had my reward and known my power. I
have been sent abroad, in the confidence of the highest--to the highest.
Don't turn from me. I am offering you no bribe, Clarence, only your
deserts. Come with me. Leave these curs behind, and live the hero that
you are!"

He turned his blazing eyes upon her.

"If you were a man"--he began passionately, then stopped.

"No! I am only a woman and must fight in a woman's way," she interrupted
bitterly. "Yes! I intreat, I implore, I wheedle, I flatter, I fawn, I
lie! I creep where you stand upright, and pass through doors to which
you would not bow. You wear your blazon of honor on your shoulder;
I hide mine in a slave's gown. And yet I have worked and striven and
suffered! Listen, Clarence," her voice again sank to its appealing
minor,--"I know what you men call 'honor,' that which makes you cling to
a merely spoken word, or an empty oath. Well, let that pass! I am weary;
I have done my share of this work, you have done yours. Let us both fly;
let us leave the fight to those who s