anger nor shame nor poignant grief, but she spoke as in a dream, and her
face when she turned it towards him was strange once more, like the face
of Fatal Love rising clear from the crash of its universe. She had drunk
the half of a bitter cup, and the remainder she must drink; but when all
was said, she was going, after weary months, to see the face of the man
she loved. Philip Sidney lifted the latch of the door, saw her enter,
and let it fall behind her.

The room in which she found herself was ruddy with firelight, the flames
coloring the marble chimney-piece and causing faint shadows to chase one
another across an arras embroidered with a hunting scene. Upon a heavy
table were thrown a cloak and mask.

The man who had worn them turned from the window, came forward a few
paces, and stood still. Damans put forth her hand, and leaned for
strength against the chimney-piece--a beautiful woman in the heart of
the glow from the fire. At first she said no word, for she was thinking
dully. "If he comes no nearer, it must be true. If he crosses not the
shadow on the floor between us, it must be true." At last she asked, in
a low voice,

"Is it true?"

In the profound silence that followed she made a step forward out of the
red glow towards the bar of shadow. Ferne stayed her with a gesture
of his hand.

"Yes, it is true," he said. "It is true, unless, indeed, there be no
answer to Pilate's 'What is truth?' For myself, I walk in a whirling
world and a darkness shot with fire. Did I do this thing? Yea, verily, I