“Yes,” he said slowly, “I’m hungry.” The blue eyes went swiftly over the items on the cracker-box table. Under that glance they seemed to diminish somewhat in bulk and decline in nourishing quality. Hilda became acutely aware of the realness of his trouble, the actual dust on his clothes, the parched, cracked lips, the exhaustion and distress of his whole young figure. “I can get something more,” she said hurriedly. “I can make Sam Kee give me a glass of milk and some bread, and, I guess, some—some—chicken.” “Wait—” He caught her as she passed, examining her face with that bluntly inquiring, suspicious gaze. “Can you get the things without anybody else knowing? You wouldn’t tell any one else—” “Oh,” cried Hilda, aghast. “Betray you? No, no, no—never—of course not!” Slowly, as though still half uncertain, he released her. She turned and almost ran through the familiar dark passage. In her breast choking sympathy reproached the triumphant delight of having her play come true. And there hung, as it were, on the heels of these swifter emotions, a slow, uncomprehending sense of hurt at the fugitive’s lack of trust in her. Negotiations with Sam Kee were brief, for Hilda had that within her which reckoned with no refusal. It seemed to her but a moment that she was gone, yet she found that her guest had eaten the last crumb of the little cakes. He fell ravenously upon the more substantial food she brought back. “Sam Kee’s making a cup of coffee,” said Hilda. The young fellow nodded his head. When he had finished the food, he looked across at her and said: “I guess I’ve got to tell you about myself.” “You needn’t,” Hilda maintained loyally. He sat for a while, looking away, a clenched hand lying on his knee. Twice he drew in his breath to speak, and turned his head, without ever quite bringing his gaze around to hers. Suddenly he got up and went to the window. He stood there, plucking at the vine leaves. Her big black eyes followed him; they noted that bright hair—dusty now, sweat-darkened in streaks, yet such as a prince ought to have; they dwelt on the outlines of his tired figure, rimmed with its halo of light; gallant, victorious, yet in danger, needing her—she could read all that into it. He whirled abruptly and came toward her. “Suppose they told you I’d killed a man,” he said. There was an awful silence in the close little room. Hilda was as one who comes upon a dizzying abyss, horrible, chaotic, yawning to swallow both dream and reality. But she was made of heroic stuff. In spirit she approached the edge and looked down, wincing but resolute and clinging to the hand of her hero.