ind her an ocean of desolation. She walked away--with a slow,
swinging stride, one hand on her hip, her head thrown back.

For a long time her darkly-clad figure was silhouetted against the
evening sky, a speck of blackness upon the immensity around. Elsa
watched her go, watched that tiny black speck which, like the locust
which at times devastates the plains, had left behind it an irreparable
trail of misery.

CHAPTER XXXII

"The land beyond the sunset."

And now the shadows of evening were slowly invading the plains. The
autumn wind, lulled for a time to rest with the setting of the sun, had
sprung up in angry gusts, lashing up clouds from the southwest and
sending them to tear along and efface the last vestige of the evening
crimson glow.

Elsa and Andor had both remained quite still after Klara left them; yet
Elsa--like all simple creatures who feel acutely--was longing to run and
let the far horizon, the distant unknown land, wrap and enfold her while
she thought things out for herself, for indeed this real world--the
world of men and women, of passions and hatred and love--was nothing but
a huge and cruel puzzle. She longed for solitude--the solitude which the
plains can offer in such absolute completeness--because her heart was
heavy and she felt that if she were all alone she might ease the weight
on her heart in a comforting flow of tears.

But this would not have been kind to Andor. She could not leave him now,
when he looked so broken down with sorrow and misery and doubt. So,
after a little while, when she felt that if she spoke her voice would be
quite steady, she said gently:

"It is not all true, is it, Andor?"

She could not--she would not believe it all true--not in the way that
Klara had put it before her, with all its horrible details of
callousness and cowardice. For more years than she could remember she
had loved and trusted Andor--she had known his simple, loyal nature, his
kind and gentle ways--a few spiteful words from a jealous woman were not
likely to tear down in a moment the solid edifice of her affection and
her confidence. True! his silence had told her something that was a
bitter truth; his passionate rage against Klara had been like a cruel
stab right into her heart--but even then she wanted the confirmation
which could only come from his own lips--and for this she waited when
she asked him, quite simply, altogether trustingly:

"It is not true, is it?"

Nor did it o