ess, then they waxed questioning.

A second ago these two had stood in anger with the width of the room
betwixt them; now, in a flash, he found his head on her lap, her lips on
his. How came he there? What meant it?

"Crispin, Crispin," she cried, "thank God you did but swoon!"

Then the awakening of his soul came swift upon the awakening of his
body. He lay there, oblivious of his wound, oblivious of his mission,
oblivious of his son. He lay with senses still half dormant and
comprehension dulled, but with a soul alert he lay, and was supremely
happy with a happiness such as he had never known in all his ill-starred
life.

In a feeble voice he asked:

"Why did you run away?"

"Let us forget it," she answered softly.

"Nay--tell me first."

"I thought--I thought--" she stammered; then, gathering courage, "I
thought you did not really care, that you made a toy of me," said she.
"When they told me that you sat at dice with a gentleman from London I
was angry at your neglect. If you loved me, I told myself, you would not
have used me so, and left me to mope alone."

For a moment Crispin let his grey eyes devour her blushing face. Then
he closed them and pondered what she had said, realization breaking upon
him now like a great flood. The light came to him in one blinding yet
all-illuming flash. A hundred things that had puzzled him in the last
two days grew of a sudden clear, and filled him with a joy unspeakable.
He dared scarce believe that he was awake, and Cynthia by him--that he
had indeed heard aright what she had said. How blind he had been, how
nescient of himself!

Then, as his thoughts travelled on to the source of the misapprehension
he remembered his son, and the memory was like an icy hand upon his
temples that chilled him through and through. Lying there with eyes
still closed he groaned. Happiness was within his grasp at last. Love
might be his again did he but ask it, and the love of as pure and sweet
a creature as ever God sent to chasten a man's life. A great tenderness
possessed him. A burning temptation to cast to the winds his plighted
word, to make a mock of faith, to deride honour, and to seize this woman
for his own. She loved him he knew it now; he loved her--the knowledge
had come as suddenly upon him. Compared with this what could his faith,
his word, his honour give him? What to him, in the face of this, was
that paltry fellow, his son, who had spurned him!

The hardest fight he ev