arms. A few years hence if Arithelli did not succeed in breaking
her neck in the ring, she would probably also make Paradise and Hell
for some man.

He could see that the dangerous crisis was over. She would live and
eventually go back to her work again. The swift intelligence, the wit
and charm of her--_A quoi bon_? She had been saved, and to what end?
For a dangerous and toilsome profession, and, in secret, another and
still greater peril.

Husband and children, and the average woman's uneventful, if happy,
fate could never be hers. Her very beauty was of the type almost
repellent to the strictly normal and healthy man.

She would no doubt have her hour of triumph, of passion. Some
_connoisseur_ of beauty would purchase her as a rare jewel is bought to
catalogue among his treasures.

In Paris she might achieve notoriety. Not now, perhaps, but later when
she had developed into a woman and knew her own power. Paris loved all
things strange, and gave homage to the woman who was among her fellows
as the orchid among flowers.

"_FATALITE_," he had named her in jest. Truly a name to bring
misfortune to any woman. Her fate had been in his own hands a few
minutes ago. He could so easily have denied her her chance, her chance
of life. Perhaps the time might come when she would reproach him for
having helped her to live.

He thrust back the thought and stooped over her.

"_Mon enfant_, do you want anything to drink? You are thirsty, _n'est
ce pas_?"

"Yes. And Emile--you won't--go away--yet?"

"_Ma foi_, no! Drink this and go to sleep."

He was the Emile of every-day life once more, brusque, blunt and
practical. As he turned away to put the glass back on the table, he
was debating whether it would not be wise to call up Maria. A woman
would understand better what to do for another woman. He knew that
Arithelli would never ask for anything under any circumstances.

He had taught her too well his own depressing theory that life "mostly
consisted of putting up with things," and in practice thereof the pupil
had outshone her master.

The rigid tension of her arms and hands as they lay on the coverlet
told of her effort for composure, and he noticed for the first time
that beautiful as the latter still were in shape and colour, one of the
nails was broken, and the finger tips had spread and widened. When
there had been meetings up in the hills at night she had always been
left to see to the unharne