ice."

His voice broke in one agonized sob. He had put all his heart, all his
feelings into that passionate appeal. He did not believe that he had
done wrong, he had not on his soul the sense of the brand of Cain.
Rough, untutored, a son of the soil, he saw no harm in sweeping out of
the way a noisome creature who spreads evil and misery. And Elsa's was
also a simple and untutored soul, even though in her calmer temperament
the wilder passions of men had found no echo. True and steadfast in
love, her mind was too simple to grasp at sophistry, to argue about
right or wrong; her feelings were her guide, and even while
Andor--burning with love and impatience--argued and clung desperately to
his own point of view, she felt only the desire to comfort and to
succour--above all, to love--she was just a girl--Andor's sweetheart and
not his judge. God alone was that! God would punish if He so
desired--indeed, He had punished already, for never had such sorrow
descended in Andor's heart before, of that she felt quite sure.

He became quite calm after awhile. Even his passion seemed to have died
down under the weight of this immense sorrow.

And the peace which comes from the plains when they are wrapped in the
darkness of the night descended on the humble peasant-girl's soul; she
saw things as they really were, not as men's turbulent desires would
have them be--above all, not as a woman's idealism would picture them.

She no longer had the desire to run away--and if the distant, unknown
land was to wrap and enfold her out of the ken of this real, cruel
world, then it should enfold her and Andor together, and her love would
wrap him and comfort him too.

So now--when he had finished speaking, when his fervent appeal to God
and to her had died down on his quivering lips--she came close up to him
and placed her small, cool hand upon his arm.

"Andor," she said gently; and her voice shook and was almost
undistinguishable from the sweet, soft sounds that filled the limitless
plain. "I am only an ignorant peasant-girl--you and I are only like
children, of course, beside the clever people who can argue about such
things. But this I do know, that there is no sin in the world so great
but it can be blotted out and forgiven. You may have done a big, big,
wrong, Andor--or perhaps you are not much to blame . . . I don't know
how that is . . . Pater Bonifacius will tell you, no doubt, when next
you make your confession to him. . . . But