ry Honoria, or any other
Catholic lady, but not a heretic or a pagan. This is called the Pauline
Privilege because it is described in the Epistle of St. Paul to the
Corinthians. My opinion is that you are free."

The man, unable to speak, or move, felt his hope grow strong and violent
out of the priest's words.

"Mind, it's only my opinion," said Monsignor, to moderate his
transports.

"You must go to Dr. Bender, the theologian, to get a purely legal
decision. I fear that I am only adding to your misery. What if he should
decide against you? What if she should decide against you?"

"Neither will happen," with painful effort. Sudden joy overcame him with
that anguish of the past, and this was overwhelming, wonderful.

"The essence of love is sacrifice," said Monsignor, talking to give him
time for composure. "Not your good only, but the happiness of her you
love must control your heart and will; and above all there must be
submission to God. When He calls, the child must leave the parent, the
lover his mistress, all ties must be broken."

"I felt from the beginning that this would come to pass," said Arthur
weakly. "Oh, I made my sacrifice long ago. The facts were all against
me, of course. Easy to make the sacrifice which had to be made. I can
make another sacrifice, but isn't it now her turn? Oh, Monsignor, all my
joy seems to come through you! From that first moment years ago, when we
met, I can date----"

"All your sorrow," the priest interrupted.

"And all my joy. Well, one cannot speak of these great things, only act.
I'm going to the theologian. Before I sleep to-night he must settle that
case. I know from your eyes it will be in my favor. I can bear
disappointment. I can bear anything now. I am free from that creature,
she is without a claim on me in any way, law, fact, religion, sympathy.
Oh, my God!"

Monsignor could not hinder the tears that poured from his eyes silently.
He clasped Arthur's hand and saw him go as he wept. In his varied life
he had never seen so intimately any heart, none so strange and woful in
its sorrow and its history, none so pathetic. The man lived entirely on
the plane of tragedy, in the ecstasy of pain; a mystery, a problem, a
wonder, yet only an average, natural, simple man, that had fought
destiny with strange weapons.

This story Arthur whispered to Louis, floating between the moonlit
shores of Champlain. He lay in the stern watching the rhythmic rise of
the oar-blades,