shall be abased." The speaker went whiter than ever.

"But be that as it may, you shall have lifted your soul out of the mire.
You must do it, Arthur; don't you see you must?"

Arthur sank into the chair at his side. He seemed to have guessed what
Leonard was keeping unsaid. A moisture of anguish stood on his brow.
Yet--

[Illustration: "Arthur Winslow, I give you five minutes."]

"I will die before I will do it," he said.

Leonard drew forth the letter, and then his watch. "Arthur Winslow, I
give you five minutes. If you don't make me that promise in that time, I
shall this day show this letter to your bishop."

The rector sat clenching his fingers and spreading them again, and
staring at the table.

A bead of sweat, then a second, and then a third started down his
forehead.

Presently he clutched the board, drew himself to his feet, and turned to
leave the chair, but fell across its arms, slid heavily from them, and
with one rude thump and then another lay unconscious on the floor.

Leonard sprang round the table, but when he would have lifted the fallen
head it was in the arms of Isabel, and her dilated eyes were on him in a
look of passionate aversion.