another bag and cap, and a pair of moccasins there. Then, barefooted and
bareheaded, he marched slowly up the Valley, and all its loveliness smote
him as a red iron is buffeted at the forge; and an exquisite agony
coursed through his veins, so that he cried out, hiding his face. And yet
he needs must look and look, all his sight aching with this perfection,
never overpowering him, but keeping him ever in the relish of his
torture.

At last he came to the door of the Tent in the late evening, and, intent
not only to buy back the soul he had marketed--for the sake of the memory
of the woman, and believing that none would die for him and that he must
die for himself--he lifted the curtain and entered. Then he gave a great
cry, for there she lay asleep, face downward, her forehead on the Purple
Mat.

"Sherah! Sherah!" he cried, dropping on his knees beside her and lifting
up her head.

"Ambroise!" she called out faintly, her pale face drawing away from his
breast.

"Sherah, why didst thou come here?" he said. "Thou! thou!"

"To buy back my soul, Ambroise. And this is the last day of the year that
I have spent here. Oh, why, why didst thou come? To-morrow all should
have been well!"

"To buy back thy soul--thou didst no wrong!" But at that moment their
eyes drew close, and changed, and he understood.