place--you?"

She sobbed so that at first she could not answer; but at last she cried:
"O Just, he is dead . . . in there, in there! . . . Last night, it
was last night; and he prayed that I might go with him. But I could not
die unforgiven, and I was right, for you have come out of the world to
help me, and to save me."

"Yes, to help you and to save you,--if I can," he added in a whisper to
himself, for he was full of foreboding. He was of the earth, earthy, and
things that had chanced to him this day were beyond the natural and
healthy movements of his mind. He had gone forth to slay, and had been
foiled by shadows; he had come with a tragic, if beautiful, memory
haunting him, and that memory had clothed itself in flesh and stood
before him, pitiful, solitary,--a woman. He had scorned all legend and
superstition, and here both were made manifest to him. He had thought of
this woman as one who was of this world no more, and here she mourned
before him and bade him go and look upon her dead, upon the man who had
wronged him, into whom, as he once declared, the soul of a cur had
entered,--and now what could he say? He had carried in his heart the
infinite something that is to men the utmost fulness of life, which,
losing, they must carry lead upon their shoulders where they thought the
gods had given pinions.

McGann and Pierre were nervous. This conjunction of unusual things was
easier to the intelligences of the dead than the quick. The outer air
was perhaps less charged with the unnatural, and with a glance towards
the room where death was quartered, they left the hut.

Trafford was alone with the woman through whom his life had been turned