kept his place at the back, where he could see and not be seen; a statue

could not have been more immobile. Constans, kneeling by the couch,

still held his sister's hand in his, keeping watch upon the pulse that

fluttered so delicately. Once or twice the heavy eyes had opened and she

had smiled up at him--contentedly as a child resting after the long

day's play.



Constans had not attempted to speak; his mind was still seeking its

wonted bearings, and he was afraid. His sister Issa!--the little Issa

with whom he had played at fox-chase and grace-hoops. Issa!--the maiden

who had gathered her May-bloom in the long ago, and who had given

herself and all for love of the stranger within her father's gates; yes,

and who had died within that self-same hour upon her lord's breast.



And yet if this miracle were indeed the truth it accounted for more than

one thing that had troubled him. He remembered now the white-robed

figure that had appeared to him in the gardens of Arcadia House and the

superstitious terror with which he had watched it following upon the

unconscious footsteps of the girl Esmay. Then, again, the fair-haired

woman who only a few minutes ago had come to meet Quinton Edge on the

north terrace, an apparition so ravishing that Constans must needs

confound it with the flesh-and-blood presentment of his own dear lady.



She was speaking now, almost fretfully. "Is the night never to be gone?

The hangings at the window are so heavy. And where is my father?"



Constans rose and went to the window, intent on flinging it wide open.

But Quinton Edge was there before him and stayed his hand.



"No," he said, and Constans obeyed, being greatly troubled in mind and

uncertain of himself, even as one who wanders in a maze. This Quinton

Edge must have perceived, for he spoke gently, making it plain to him

that this was, indeed, the maid whom they had both loved and not some

disembodied shadow from the underworld. And having come finally to

believe this, Constans was comforted and desired to hear the matter in

full. "Tell me," he said, and Quinton Edge went on:



"It was weeks and weeks that she lay weak and speechless upon a pallet

of dried fern, her only shelter the thatch of a mountain sheepfold.



"There was no one among us who had any knowledge of surgery, and so I

had to be content with simples--cold-water compresses for the wound and

a tea made from the blossoms of the camomile flower to subdue the fever

in the blood. So the days dragged by until the turn for the better came.

Little by little I nursed her back to life again, and in time we came

safely to Doom.



"Arcadia House was a secure hiding-place for my treasure, and during all

these years no one has even guessed at the secret. I had no need to

trust my servants, for they knew nothing; the walls had neither eyes nor

ears, and I kept my own counsel. Until to-day no man's eye but mine has

looked upon her face.



"But even yet you do not wholly understand. Have you forgotten, then,

that the body may be in health and yet the soul be darkened? She had

come back to life, indeed, but it was the life of a butterfly in the

sun, unconscious of aught else than the light and warmth that surrounds

it. For her the past had been sealed; to me the future. Do you

understand now? A woman grown and yet as a new-born babe in heart and

mind. What was there for me to do but to bear my punishment as patiently

as I might, the cup of love ever at my lips, but never to be tasted."



Constans kept silence for a little space. When he spoke it was

haltingly.



"Then you think--you think----"



"She recognized you. Could you not see it--that note in her voice as of

one who wakes from a long sleep? That was why I stopped you from

throwing aside the window-curtains. The light of the burning city--it

might have brought back the memory of that night at the keep."



"And for the same reason you have kept yourself out of sight," said

Constans, coldly.



The man trembled. "Yes; I am afraid," he answered, and Constans, for all

his bitterness of heart, was fain to pity him.



A series of muffled explosions startled them. Quinton Edge moved softly

towards the outer door. "The fire must be coming nearer," he whispered.

"I will make sure of our position and return within a few minutes. Hush!

she is sleeping again."



But when Constans went and stood by the couch, Issa was looking at him

with wide-opened eyes.



"Constans--little brother," she said, weakly, and yet with an infinite

content. He dropped to his knees beside her and tried to answer, but

could not.



"Surely it must be close to morning now," she went on, slowly. "I can

hear the doves cooing on the tiles, the wind is blowing over the

water-meadows, and the lark is in the blue--ah, God! how beautiful this

dear world of ours! It is the May-time, little brother, and the arbutus

will be in bloom--the shy, pink blossoms that nestle on the sunny slopes

of the rocks and at the roots of the birch-trees. We will gather

them--you and I--and bring them home to deck our lady mother's chamber.

The May-bloom--it is in the air. How sweet--how sweet!"



Constans, following the look in her eyes, saw a low table standing

against the opposite wall. Upon it was a bowl filled with the delicate

arbutus--fresh and fragrant as though but lately gathered. He went

softly across the room and despoiled the bowl of a spray. She took it

from him eagerly. Then the violet eyes clouded.



"I cannot remember--it must be that I am still so tired--it is strange.

The morning--it cannot be far distant--now----"



Quinton Edge at the threshold held up a beckoning finger, and Constans

went to him.



"It is upon us," said the Doomsman. "The out-buildings are smoking

already, and the lumber-yard on the north will become a furnace the

instant that the first spark falls there. There is but one chance--the

river. You will find a boat at the dock. The girl Esmay--ah, you could

think that, too, of me. Yet it was natural enough."



Constans would have spoken, but the words tripped on his tongue. Quinton

Edge interrupted him imperiously.



"She is there," he said, and pointed to a door leading to the interior

apartments of the suite. "I could not leave Issa entirely alone on this

last night. So I brought the girl here--for once, she trusted me. For

once, you can do likewise."



Constans bowed his head. "But Issa," he said, thickly.



"She would be dead in our arms before we reached the stairs," returned

the other. "Can you not leave her to me for just this little while

longer?" His voice hardened savagely. "She is mine, do you hear--mine,

mine. I have paid the price, double and treble, and now I take what is

my own."



His voice rang like a trumpet in the narrow room. And yet, straight

through its clamor, pierced the sound of a stifled cry. Constans turned

instantly, but Quinton Edge, trembling, kept his eyes fixed on the

floor.



Sitting upright upon the couch, Issa looked at the two men steadfastly,

and then only at the one. The violet depths in her eyes had darkened to

pools of midnight, and her lips were like a thread of scarlet against

the ivory of her face. A miracle! but Constans would not look again,

knowing that for him this hour had passed forever.



Constans went to the inner door and opened it. Esmay was kneeling at the

window; he went over and touched her on the shoulder. "Come," he said.

She looked up at him, and he saw that her face whitened for all of the

glare from the flaming sky that fell upon it. Yet she let him lead her,

unresisting, into the other room, where Quinton Edge still stood

motionless and looked upon the floor. Constans plucked at his sleeve,

drawing him out into the full circle of the lamp-light. Face to face for

the last time, and, though no word was said, each knew that there was

peace between them.



"Go to her," whispered Constans, and pushed him gently towards the

couch.



* * * * *



Now the room had fallen into semi-darkness, for the oil had failed in

the lamp, and there was only that dull-red line along the edge of the

window-curtains. And there was silence, too, for all that words could

say had been said already.



* * * * *



The minutes passed, but the man had ceased to count them. The hand that

lay in his was growing cold, but the knowledge had ceased to concern

him; the brain no longer registered the messages sent by the nerves,

and he was conscious only of an immense weariness, of an overwhelming

desire to sleep. The maiden Issa's hair lay within the hollow of his

arm, a pool of rippled gold; it was like looking down into an enchanted

well; the waters seem to rise and meet him. The glow at the curtain-edge

grew stronger; now it was a lake of liquid fire into which he gazed.



* * * * *



The threshold of the door had warped and sprung, and through the crack

crept a thin line of smoke; it raised itself sinuously, as does a snake;

it darted its head from side to side, preparing to strike.



* * * * *



Descending the staircase, Constans saw that the time was growing

perilously short. On three sides of them the buildings were burning, and

Arcadia House itself was on fire at the southern wing. The hurricane,

shifting back to the northwest, was at its wildest, and the air was full

of ashes and incandescent sparks. As Constans and Esmay emerged from the

shelter of the house, it seemed as though the universe itself was on

fire. Could they ever hope to reach the river? His heart sank as he

looked at that fiery rain through which they must pass. He turned to

Esmay.



"It is the only way," he began, and then stopped, wondering that she

should look so strangely upon him.



"I thought you dead," she answered, humbly. "It was the last thing I

heard--the silver whistle and Nanna misunderstood my question."



"Oh," said Constans, enlightened, and at the same time subtly warned

that he must not press her too far. "So you feared that it might have

been my spirit that came to fetch you?"



"No; not feared," she answered, and with such sweet confidence that

Constans's heart thrilled to new courage. By God's splendor! this woman

trusted him and he would save her.



Half way to the boat-stage they were caught in a whirlwind of choking

vapor; they struggled onward for a few steps, and then the girl fell.

With infinite difficulty Constans half carried, half dragged her down

the last slope to the landing. The boat, a small canoe or dugout, was

there, but he could find only one broken paddle. It was a mad thing to

venture out upon the wind-lashed river with equipment so imperfect, but

there could be no choice of another way.



The tide was running out strongly and Constans could do nothing more

than keep the craft on a straight course and out of the trough of the

heavier seas. He looked longingly at the opposite shore, so near to the

eye and so impossible to attain against that wind and tide; he realized

that they were drifting down into the open bay, and that would be the

end. Yet he would fight for it, and now that the fresh air had aroused

Esmay from her swoon, she crept to his side and sat there comforting

him.



Four hours later the keel grated on a pebbly shingle, and Constans,

looking about him with weary eyes, recognized the little bay, with its

fringing semicircle of trees. Here was the very log upon which he had

sat and dreamed of unutterable things that bright May morning in the

long ago, a dream from which he had awakened to make first acquaintance

with Quinton Edge.



A little way up the grassy glade a fire was burning, and there was the

savory odor of roasted meat in the air. Constans helped Esmay out of the

boat, and with stiffened limbs they dragged themselves up the forest

way. There was a little shriek, a rush of feet, and swishing skirts, and

Nanna's arms were about her sister, while Constans was looking into

Piers Minor's honest eyes.



Far in the north, a smoke as of a furnace ascended, and the sky was

darkened. But here the sun shone brightly, the grass was green

underfoot, the birds sang in the branches above their heads, and the

smell of the spring-tide was in the air. Truly, life and light are sweet

to him who has once walked in the shadow.