the pool, and with a frightened cry flapped its tired wings, and
drifted into the dark. His eyes, through the gathering shadow,
devoured the weak, trembling body, met the soul that looked at
him, strong as his own. Was it because it knew and trusted him
that all that was pure and strongest in his crushed nature
struggled madly to be free? He thrust it down; the self-learned
lesson of years was not to be conquered in a moment.

"There have been times," he said, in a smothered, restless voice,
"when I thought you belonged to me. Not here, but before this
life. My soul and body thirst and hunger for you, then,
Margret."

She did not answer; her hands worked feebly together, the dull
blood fainting in her veins.

Knowing only that the night yawned intolerable about her, that
she was alone,--going mad with being alone. No thought of heaven
or God in her soul: her craving eyes seeing him only. The
strong, living man that she loved: her tired-out heart goading,
aching to lie down on his brawny breast for one minute, and die
there,--that was all.

She did not move: underneath the pain there was power, as Knowles
thought.

He came nearer, and held up his arms to where she stood,--the
heavy, masterful face pale and wet.

"I need you, Margret. I shall be nothing without you, now.