one of those delicate little figures men find in the olive-woods
near Tanagra; and there was a touch of Greek grace in her pose and
attitude. Yet she was not petite. She was simply perfectly
proportioned--a rare thing in an age when so many women are either
over life-size or insignificant.

Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terrible
pity that is born of love. He felt that to marry her, with the doom
of murder hanging over his head, would be a betrayal like that of
Judas, a sin worse than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of. What
happiness could there be for them, when at any moment he might be
called upon to carry out the awful prophecy written in his hand?
What manner of life would be theirs while Fate still held this
fearful fortune in the scales? The marriage must be postponed, at
all costs. Of this he was quite resolved. Ardently though he loved
the girl, and the mere touch of her fingers, when they sat together,
made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite joy, he recognised
none the less clearly where his duty lay, and was fully conscious of
the fact that he had no right to marry until he had committed the
murder. This done, he could stand before the altar with Sybil
Merton, and give his life into her hands without terror of
wrongdoing. This done, he could take her to his arms, knowing that
she would never have to blush for him, never have to hang her head
in shame. But done it must be first; and the sooner the better for
both.

Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of
dalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was too
conscientious to set pleasure above principle. There was more than
mere passion in his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all that