she would give in pity. I fought to save her as well as myself from my
madness.

At last she spoke, and her voice was tired and quiet. "You wish me to
go, monsieur?"

That brought me to my manhood. I went to her and looked down at her
brown head; the brave brown head that she had carried so high through
all the terror and unkindness that had come to her. I touched her hair
with my lips, and I grew as quiet as she.

"Mary," I said, "it is I who must go away at once before I make trouble
for both of us. You are trying to forgive me, but you cannot do it.
You may think you have done it, but the time would come when you would
look at me in horror, as you looked at Starling. I could stand death
better. I know that you cannot forgive me. I knew it at the moment
when I gave the signal to attack the camp. You can never forgive me."

She lifted her eyes to mine. "I have not forgiven you, monsieur.
There is nothing to forgive."

I let myself look at her, and all my calmness left me. I shut my teeth
and tried to hold myself in bounds.

"Mary!" I groaned, "be careful! Be careful! It is not your pity I
want. If you forgive me for pity"----

I could not finish, for she gave a little sob. She turned to me. "It
is you who marry for pity," she cried, with her eyes brimming. "I
could not. I would not. And I have nothing to forgive; nothing,
nothing. I would not have had you do anything else. I was proud of
you. Oh, so proud, so proud! If you had done anything else I could
never have---- Monsieur, do you love me--a little?"

I took her in my arms. I held her close to me and looked into her
eyes. I looked deep into them and into the soul of her. I saw
understanding of me, acceptance of me as I was. I saw belief, heart
hunger, love.

And then I laid my lips on hers. She was my wife. She was the woman
God had made for me, the woman who had trusted me through more than
death, and who had come to me through blood and agony and tears. She
was my own, and I had her there alive. I took her to myself.

CHAPTER XXXIII

TO US AND TO OUR CHILDREN

Hours passed and the flap of Cadillac's tent was not lifted. Outside
in the camp the drum beat for sunset. The woman heard it. She pushed
back her soft waves of hair, and a shadow fell across the light that
had been in her eyes.

"I had forgotten," she cried, with a soft tremble of wonder in her
voice. "We have both forgotten. We promised the comma