She felt his hands tighten on hers. “Barbe, I have found my father.” “At Thorn?” “Yes.” She shuddered slightly, despite herself, and he saw her eyes darken. “John, did you speak to him?” “Without mercy.” “Does he know?” “He thinks you dead.” “Why is he at Thorn?” “Hiding from the law because of this Plot; hiding from us, a miserable wreck of a man, half starved, almost mad.” She saw his face grow haggard and stern, the lines deepening about the mouth, his eyes staring fixedly at the fire, as though he were looking upon a thing that revolted him. The instinct in her was one of a strong, pure passion to be of use. He had feared for her courage, perhaps for her magnanimity. Yet it was she who took the torch that evening, and carried it so that the darkness seemed less dark. “John, my heart, tell me everything.” She drew him by the hands into the inner room, and shut the world out, save that world at Thorn. He looked down at her, as though wondering at the will in her, and feeling a strength and courage near him that might have the power of turning destiny into providence. She was calm yet infinitely vital, and her face had a radiance that drove scorn and bitterness and malice into the dark. He beheld a transfiguration—love bending toward love, beautiful with the beauty of sacrifice, pity, and desire. “John, do you fear for me?” He opened his arms, but paused with a sudden awe of her, and, bowing himself, touched her hands. “No, not now.” “Then tell me everything.” And he told her, sitting in the firelight, with his hands clasped upon his knees. Silence held them awhile in thrall. Barbara was leaning against the jamb of the chimney, one hand laid along her cheek, her eyes full of the past. It was as though some sharp struggle were passing within her, and for a moment her eyes had a glitter of anger. But the gleam passed from them, and her mouth softened. She looked down at the man with a mystery of a smile—a smile with no mirth in it, but full of sadness, yearning, and self-reproach. “John.” He started, almost as though he had forgotten her. “Do you love your father?” The question seemed to stagger him; he frowned at the fire. “Love that!” She rested her head upon her arm; his scorn had made the heart leap in her. “I did, John, my father. And then—What misery! What greater shame!” “But you—” “John—John, what must it be to lose everything, even the love of one’s own son? That touches me, even to the heart. Is it not strange that I should feel that, even more than you?” He looked at her questioningly, mutely. She had not seen what he had seen—cowardice, squalor, bestial fawning that was infamous in a man. And yet her words woke a depth of feeling in him, something finer and more delicate than his man’s nature had fashioned of itself. He opened his mouth to tell her more of the gross truth, but some impulse rebuked him. He waited instinctively for her.