“There comes the lady,” said Paul; “let her answer.” “I am heartily ashamed of you both,” said Ouida. “You have selected a most inappropriate place, as well as subject, for discussion.” The preacher looked ashamed of himself, but Paul, now thoroughly aroused, was almost bursting with defiance; but Ouida had him absolutely under control, and when she commanded him with decisive voice to bring her an ice, he went, submissive like a dog. “And you, sir,” turning to the preacher, “what right have you to give way to vulgar differences with Paul?” “I have no excuse to offer, save my adoration of yourself,” said he, humbly. “Why vex your soul?” said she filling up with wondrous pity for the man. “Your torment of yourself is useless. I am further from you today than ever before.” “How is this, madam? Is there absolutely no hope for me?” “None, sir. The barrier between us can never be broken.” “And what is that barrier?” he said, a mighty despair getting its grasp upon him, for he noted the deadly earnestness of her speech. “The obstacle is Paul,” she confessed. “Your big-limbed model?” He would not believe it. “Even so,” said the woman, as she bowed her head. “And how is he in my way? Would you stoop to him?” “Stoop, sir,” she said, her pride returning, “I have sworn to marry him.” He staggered with a nameless fear. “But you do not love him,” he said. “You cannot blind me.” “I have no desire to do so. I simply tell the truth.” Nor could he fail to be deeply impressed with her simple dignity. “Listen, woman, I care not whose heart I break, you love me! Deny it if you can!” “If I did, what would be the difference?” said Ouida. “I have sworn to wed him. I led him on. He did not dream of me, until I made him drunk with the promise of my life. He has done no wrong. I must bear the grief.” “Then all I have given up is naught to you? You will break my heart and crush my life without a tear?” said he. “Rather yours than his. Come, be a man; wound me no further,” she pleaded, earnestly. “I cannot break a single link in the awful chain of fate,” and he bowed his head in silence. “Do with me as you will.” “Have you still the power to marry?” she asked. “Yes, I have given up my church, not the ministry.” “Then will you do me one last favor?” she appealed. “Be your fate what it will,” said he, “I am still your slave.” “Marry Paul and me,” she pleaded, as though upon the answer depended her life or death. “Dare you ask this of me?” “I do, and pray you ask me not why.” “I have not the courage nor the strength,” said he, suddenly, filled up with a great weakness. “Have I naught to suffer?” she said, in great grief. “Will you compel me to go through it all alone?” “I’ll do it,” said he. “I cannot enter deeper into the vale of suffering than I am now. You have stolen from me the power of resistance. Now, I pray you, let me go.” As the preacher passed from her, Paul returned, looking dark and gloomy.