But the hold on my wrists grew firmer. Von Gerhard’s eyes were steady as they gazed into mine. “Dawn, Vienna, and the whole world is waiting for you, if you will but take it. Vienna—and happiness—with me—” I wrenched my wrists free with a dreadful effort and rose, sick, bewildered, stunned. My world—my refuge of truth, and honor, and safety and sanity that had lain in Ernst von Gerhard’s great, steady hands, was slipping away from me. I think the horror that I felt within must have leaped to my eyes, for in an instant Von Gerhard was beside me, steadying me with his clear blue eyes. He did not touch the tips of my fingers as he stood there very near me. From the look of pain on his face I knew that I had misunderstood, somehow. “Kleine, I see that you know me not,” he said, in German, and the saying it was as tender as is a mother when she reproves a child that she loves. “This fight against the world, those years of unhappiness and misery, they have made you suspicious and lacking in trust, is it not so? You do not yet know the perfect love that casts out all doubt. Dawn, I ask you in the name of all that is reasoning, and for the sake of your happiness and mine, to divorce this man Peter Orme—this man who for almost ten years has not been your husband—who never can be your husband. I ask you to do something which will bring suffering to no one, and which will mean happiness to many. Let me make you happy—you were born to be happy—you who can laugh like a girl in spite of your woman’s sorrows—” But I sank into a chair and hid my face in my hands so that I might be spared the beauty and the tenderness of his eyes. I tried to think of all the sane and commonplace things in life. Somewhere in my inner consciousness a cool little voice was saying, over and over again: “Now, Dawn, careful! You’ve come to the crossroads at last. Right or left? Choose! Now, Dawn, careful!” and the rest of it all over again. When I lifted my face from my hands at last it was to meet the tenderness of Von Gerhard’s gaze with scarcely a tremor. “You ought to know,” I said, very slowly and evenly, “that a divorce, under these circumstances, is almost impossible, even if I wished to do what you suggest. There are certain state laws—” An exclamation of impatience broke from him. “Laws! In some states, yes. In others, no. It is a mere technicality—a trifle! There is about it a bit of that which you call red tape. It amounts to nothing—to that!” He snapped his fingers. “A few months’ residence in another state, perhaps. These American laws, they are made to break.” “Yes; you are quite right,” I said, and I knew in my heart that the cool, insistent little voice within had not spoken in vain. “But there are other laws—laws of honor and decency, and right living and conscience—that cannot be broken with such ease. I cannot marry you. I have a husband.”