even in those
years she had been his inspiration? Yes; she knew that, too, for she
had seen it, and others had seen it. It was true! And he had said
that he would never work again--never do that great, wondrous work of
his again--alone--without her--never return to it--without her. And he
had said that the _grand monde_ that once had taken her place in his
life, the _grand monde_ in which she could have no part, was of the
past now--the past to which he would never return--no matter what she
did or said now--to which he would never return.

They were in a corridor; and from the corridor they entered a room,
where there were three men seated in a row at desks. These men began
to talk amongst themselves; but it was only when an interpreter, who
was also present, put questions to Jean that she could understand
anything.

"To love God and be never afraid"--she tried to think of that again,
tried to say it over and over. But she _was_ afraid. There was
terror; and, besides terror, there was that new wonder in her
soul--and, mingling, they brought confusion upon her, and at first even
the words in her own tongue conveyed no meaning, and possessed for her
only an unnatural sense of familiarity. And then, in snatches, she
began to catch the drift of what was going on around her--a stowaway in
any case was almost invariably deported ... undesirable for other
reasons ... murderous assault upon one of the crew when he was
discovered ... his outburst of fury and threat of attack upon the
officers only a few moments ago ... medical examination ... stab wound
in side barely healed ... a vicious character....

The wound! The wound in Jean's side! She had forgotten that! It
brought a sharp cry to her lips, that caused them all to turn and look
at her. But she did not care. What if they looked! She was looking
at Jean--looking at the gaunt, white, haggard-faced giant, who smiled
and shrugged his shoulders to every question that was put to him. His
wound--barely healed! What must those days and nights of torturing,
brutal work in the stokehole of that ship have meant to him--and she
had thought so pitiful a thing as an hour of the coarse food, the
paltry misery of the steerage, would have made him falter and regret!

They kept on questioning him--but she was not listening now. Her soul
was whispering to her: "It is Jean; it is Jean; Jean that you love;
Jean that you have loved all your life, all your life, who has d