“Listen! What have I to hear? This thing lies in my throat—and stifles me. I cannot bear it, I cannot bear to die with it—smothering my breath.” He breathed out, and tried to hold himself in hand. “Nan, it is impossible—” “No, no.” “I cannot go to-night. There are matters—affairs that it would be death to me to leave. I tell you, I tell you—my honor is pledged here.” She held out a rigid arm toward him, her blurred, sightless eyes at gaze. “Stephen, I warn you—” “I tell you, you do not understand—” “Your honor! You weigh your honor against this thing! Stephen, I warn you—” “For God’s sake, listen: I—” “No, no. Save the child, I charge you, or before I die I will tell the truth.” Her hand dropped and then went to her throat, for a spasm of choking seized her, and he could see the muscles straining in her throat and her dry lips praying for air. Stephen Gore thought that death had her that instant, but the strength of her purpose bore her through. “Stephen, promise me.” He held out his hands appealingly, helplessly; but the gesture was lost upon her blindness. “Promise.” “It is impossible.” “Man, man, have you ever loved any one but yourself? Have you never stood on the edge of the world—and looked over—over into darkness? I cannot go to it—with this thing stifling me. Stephen, I ask you, if you have ever loved me, do me this last mercy.” He walked to and fro with a quick, rigid step, and paused at the far end of the room, feeling the air hot and poisonous, and the blood drumming at his temples. “I am to sacrifice myself, Nan. You ask that?” She propped herself upon the pillow, her head swaying slightly from side to side. “I ask you not to face your God, Stephen, with more blood upon your hands.” He cried out at her with bitterness. “Woman, woman, what can I do?” “What I have asked. Ride down to Thorn—to-night. And, Stephen, do not think that I shall die—so soon—that you can play with me—and shirk it. You may wish that I were dead now—and silent.” He leaned against the wall, spreading his arms against it as though to steady himself. “Before God, Nan, not that!” “Stephen, if you have ever loved me, do not stoop to play a coward’s trick upon me now.” He leaned there against the wall, almost like a man crucified, his face haggard, his forehead agleam with sweat. He had come to temporize, to dissuade, to cheat the truth with a few glib words, and he found the heart plucked out of him, and his self beaten against its anger and its will. “Nan, I will go.” “There is time—yet.” “A night—and a day.” She held out her hands as though with a piteous sense of loneliness and leave-taking; but though he was humbled, shaken, he could not look into her face. “Nan, I will go. Let that help you to live. What will come of it God alone can tell.”