constant reiteration during every unguarded moment had mechanically
forced themselves into lasting coherence. She listened with head bent
forward, and eyes through which terror, horror, despair, chased each
other, then returned and fought together. "It is all true," he cried,
in conclusion. "It is all true. Why don't you speak? Cannot you
understand?"

She wrenched her hands from his grasp and flung her arms above her
head. "Yes," she cried, "I understand. I am a woman for whose sin Time
has no mercy; you are a madman, and I am alone!"

"What are you saying?" he demanded, thickly. "You are alone? There is
no hope, then?"

"No, there is no hope," she said, "nor has the worst--" She sprang
suddenly forward and caught him about the neck. "Oh, Harold!" she
cried, "you are not mad. It cannot be! I cannot think of the sin, or
care; I only know that I love you! love you! love you! and that if we
can be together always the past can go; even--Oh, Harold, speak to me;
don't look at me in that way!"

But his arms hung inertly at his sides, and he looked down into her
agonized face with a smile. "No hope!" he whispered.

The poor girl dropped in a heap to the floor, as if the life had
suddenly gone out of her. Harold gave a little laugh. "No hope!" he
said.

She sprang to her feet and flew down the gallery. But he stood where
she had left him. She reached the open window, then turned and for