"So they killed him?" he said, more quietly anon; "poor child, forget him, it was the fate of war. Even to the grave he took the love I might never wear." She shuddered and hid her face. "Fulviac, have pity!" "Pity?" "This is a judgment, God help my soul!" "A judgment?" "For serving my own heart before the Virgin’s words." The man stopped suddenly in his stride, and looked at her as though her words had touched him like a bolt betwixt the jointings of his harness. There was still the morose frown upon his face, the half closure of the lids over the tawny eyes. He gripped his chin with one of his bony hands, and turned his great beak of a nose upwards with a gesture of self-scorn. "Since the damned chicanery of chance so wills it," he said, "I will confess to you, that my confession may ease your conscience. The Madonna in that forest chapel was framed of flesh and blood." "Fulviac!" "Of flesh and blood, my innocent, tricked out to work my holy will. We needed a Saint, we cleansers of Christendom; ha, noble justiciaries that we are. Well, well, the Virgin served us, and tripped back to a warm nest at Gilderoy, reincarnated by high heaven." Yeoland stood motionless in the shadows of the room, like one striving to reason amid the rush of many thoughts. She showed no wrath at her betrayal; her pale soul was too white for scarlet passion. The significance of life had vanished in a void of gloom. She stood like Hero striving to catch her lover’s voice above the moan of the sea. Fulviac unbuckled his sword and threw it with a crash upon the table. He thrust his arms above his head, stretched his strong sinews, took deep breaths into his knotted throat. "The truth is out," he said to her; "come, madame, confess to me in turn." Yeoland faced him with quivering lips, and a tense straining of her fingers. "What have I to tell?" she asked. "Nothing?" "Save that I loved the Lord Flavian, and that he is dead." "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." "Ah, you are avenged," she said, "you have crushed my heart; may the thought comfort you." Her parched apathy seemed to elapse of a sudden, and she lost her calmness in an outburst of passion. She was athirst for solitude, to be cloistered from the rough cavil of the world. Colour glowed upon her sunken cheeks as she stretched out her arms to the man with a piteous vehemence. "Fulviac----" "Girl." "Ah, for God’s love, end now this mockery. Take this armour from me, for it burns my bosom. Let me go, that I may hide my wounds in peace." "Peace!" he said, with a twinge of scorn. "Fulviac, can you not pity me? I am broken and bruised, men stare and jeer. Oh, my God, only to be out of sight and alone!" The man stood by the window looking out into the sky with lowering brows. The west burnt red above the house-tops; from the street came the noise of men marching. "Do not kill yourself," he said with laconic brevity. "Why do you say that?"