night," said Florence faintly, a little dazed by all that he had
said to her. Then, running through the shadows to her home, she was
thinking of the boy who had wished to propose to her and of the man who
had done so; of Elmer's little home upon the knoll surrounded by a cow,
a horse, and some pigs . . . and of a big house like a palace looking
out to sea across the swaying masts of white-sailed, sea-going yachts!

CHAPTER XXI

A CRISIS

Like Norton, Virginia found life simplifying itself in a crisis. Upon
three hundred and sixty days or more of the average year each
individual has before him scores of avenues open to his thoughts or to
his act; he may turn wheresoever he will. But in the supreme moments
of his life, with brief time for hesitation granted him, he may be
forced to do one of two things: he must leap back or plunge forward to
escape the destiny rushing down upon him like a speeding engine
threatening him who has come to stand upon the crossing. Now Virginia
saw clearly that she must submit to Norton's mastery and remain silent
in the King's Palace or she must seek to escape and tell what she knew
or . . . Was there a remaining alternative? If so it must present
itself as clearly as the others. Action was stripped down to
essentials, bared to its component elements. True vision must
necessarily result, since no side issues cluttered the view.

She sat upon a saddle-blanket upon the rock floor of the main chamber
of the series of ancient dwelling-rooms, staring at the fire which
Norton had builded against a wall where it might not be seen from
without. The horses were in the meadow down by the stream; she and
Norton had tethered them among the trees where they were fairly free
from the chance of being seen. Norton was coming up, mounting the
deep-worn steps in the cliff side. He had gone for water; he had not
been out of sight nor away five minutes. And yet when she looked up to
see him coming through the irregular doorway she had decided.

She saw in him both the man and the gentleman. Her anger had died down
long ago, smothered in the ashes of her distress; now she summoned to
the fore all that she might in extenuation of what he did. She did not
blame him for the crimes which she knew he had committed because she
was so confident that the chief crime of all had been the act resulting
from Caleb Patten's abysmal ignorance. Nor now could she blame Norton
that, embarked upon this fl