Neither moved. The slow, deep colour mounted to the roots of his hair; but she was white as death. "Ailsa." "Yes." And suddenly he had dropped to one knee, and the hem of her gray garb was against his lips--and it was a thing of another age that he did, there on one knee at her feet, but it became him as it had become his ancestors. And she saw it, and, bending, laid her slim hands on his head. After a long silence, her hands still resting on his dark hair, she found voice enough to speak. "I know you now." And, as he made no answer: "It is there, in you--all that I believed. It was to that I--yielded--once." She looked intently down at him. "I think at last you have become--my champion. . . . Not my--destroyer. Answer me, Philip!" He would not, or could not. "I take you--for mine," she said. "Will you deny me?" "No, Ailsa." She said, steadily: "The other--the lesser happiness is to be--forgotten. Answer." "It--must be." She bent lower, whispering: "Is there no wedlock of the spirit?" "That is all there ever was to hope for." "Then--_will_ you--Philip?" "Yes. Will _you_, Ailsa?" "I--will." He rose; her fingers slipped from his hair to his hands, and they stood, confronted. She said in a dull voice: "I am engaged to--be--married to Captain Hallam." "I know it." She spoke again, very white. "Can you tell me why you will not marry me?" "No, I cannot tell you." "I--would love you none the less. Don't you believe me?" "Yes, I do now. But I--cannot ask that of you." "Yet--you would have--taken me without--marriage." He said, quietly: "Marriage--or love to the full, without it--God knows how right or wrong that may be. The world outlaws those who love without it--drives them out, excommunicates, damns. . . . It may be God does, too; but--_I--don't--believe it_, Ailsa." She said, whiter still: "Then I must not think of--what cannot be?" "No," he said dully, "it cannot be." She laid her hands against his lips in silence. "Good night. . . . You won't leave me--too much--alone?" "May I write to you, dear?" "Please. And come when--when you can." He laughed in the utter hopelessness of it all. "Dear, I cannot come to you unless--_he_ comes." At that the colour came back into her face. Suddenly she stooped, touched his hands swiftly with her lips--the very ghost of contact--turned, and was gone. Hallam's voice was hearty and amiable; also he welcomed her with a smile; but there seemed to be something hard in his eyes as he said: "I began to be afraid that you'd gone to sleep, Ailsa. What the deuce has kept you? A sick man?" "Y-es; he is--better--I think." "That's good. I've only a minute or two left, and I wanted to speak--if you'll let me--about----" "Can't you come again next week?" she asked. "Well--of course, I'll do my best. I wanted to speak----" "Don't say everything now," she protested, forcing a smile, "otherwise what excuse will you have for coming again?"