Such thoughts as these would make me grovel at your feet, if need be, in an agony of prayer. The means, I cry--and you are the means! What is there for me, then, but to beseech you to have faith in me? I suppose, as yet, you have little or no cause--though once or twice I have risen to you, even though perhaps you did not know it. I am almost happy now--for I feel that this _useless_ strife is at an end, this craving and wondering if you wish to leave me. And for all that, I despise you, too--for your blind and wanton cruelty in wishing to crush what you have created! How do you expect God to value your soul, when you so lightly value mine? But after all, will it help me to beseech you? The thing I honor in you is your desire to be right--and I know that you will act toward me as your sense of right prompts you. You will act toward me as you feel you _must_ do, to be true. Yes, be true to yourself, please; I am happy to trust in yourself so. If you believe that I will mar your life, I do not wish to go I with you. I do not know why, but I feel that something has come to me to prevent my despair from returning; I shall take care of my soul--there _must_ be something for me in this life. I have a feeling that perhaps you will think I am writing this last mute acceptance of your will, without knowing what I am doing. But I _know_ that I shall struggle without you, I shall not die. And I wish that you would do one thing--see me as soon as you can; let it be early in the morning, and it shall be decided _on_ _that_ _day_ whether I am to marry you or not. I shall leave you, not to see you again--or knowing that I am to be your wife. I am sick unto death of fuming and sighing, tears and fears. What will you do, Thyrsis? I cannot write any more. I unfold the letter again. _What, in the name of God, are you going to do?_ BOOK IV THE VICTIM APPROACHES _A silence had fallen upon them. She sat watching where the light of the sun flickered among the birches; and he had the book in his hand, and was turning the pages idly. He read-- “I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?” And she smiled, and quoted in return-- “Here cam’st thou in thy jocund youthful time, Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime! And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.”_ Section 1. It was early one November afternoon, in his cabin in the forest, that Thyrsis wrote the last of his minstrel’s songs. He had not been able to tell when it would come to him, so he had made no preparations; but when the last word was on the paper, he sprang to his feet, and strode through the snow-clad forest to the nearest farm-house. The farmer came with a wagon, and Thyrsis bundled all his belongings into his trunk, and took the night-train for the city.