"And after death the judgment," he said, in a husky voice. "Do you know the vows that I have taken? Can you promise me peace of mind after I have broken them?" "Yes," she said, boldly. "I can promise you more than you have now." "An easy promise," he said, bitterly. "Come while you have the privilege," she urged. "They are going to drive you out. I hear complaints. They say your manner is strange, your words severe. Even the saintly Mrs. Prymmer has lifted her voice against you, and yesterday I overheard two of your lambs. They spoke of your coming to French Cross and taking a friendly glass of wine with us. They called you a wine-bibber. It makes my blood boil that such ignorant creatures should have you at their beck and call,--you, who used to be so free." Her sufferings were as deep, and even deeper than she described them; and making no attempt at disguise, she dropped her hands that he might see how distorted was her own face. "Two human beings on the rack," he muttered, "and we could so easily put a stop to it. If it were not for the pangs of conscience,--absence will not blot out remembrance. There are some people here that I cannot leave. What would they say?" A feeling of triumph took possession of her. Formerly his answers to her pleadings had been altogether of his obligations to his Maker. In spite of unhappiness, mental disgust, and seasons of torture, he must struggle on, hoping for light and a clearer understanding. Now he had descended to the lower level. He feared the voice of men more than the voice of God. "Bernal," she whispered, pleadingly. She had reached up and put a hand on his shoulder. He did not love her. His whole being was merged in his life and death struggle for the losing or gaining of his soul. Yet she exerted a strange fascination over his senses. "Poor girl," he murmured, stroking the hair from her hot forehead. "If you were only--" "If I were different. Ah, yes, for your sake, but I love you, Bernal, I love you." He could not repel her. It was not in his nature to be unkind to a woman, and she spoke truly. She loved him. Never again would he meet with such devotion. "Chelda," he said, hoarsely, "I cannot marry you and stay here. You would not be willing. If I were to give up this church, if I were to go to some other--" "Never, never," she said, vehemently. "You are not fitted for a clerical life. You are too high-strung, too proud. They are killing you here. They would do the same elsewhere." He groaned miserably. Had the time come for his surrender? This fever of unrest was killing him, and if he persisted in staying he would rend his church in pieces and bring dishonour to the cause of religion. And yet, in spite of his proposal, he could never leave here to roam from place to place in search of a new flock. "Chelda," he stammered, "I will decide to-night. Give me a little further time." She pressed her glowing face against his arm. "No, Bernal, now, now--"