“Ah, then!”--and she held her hands out eagerly like a child--“give him to me. I’ll take care of him. If you can’t, I will.” “Be careful,” he said harshly. “Be careful. You’ll try me too far. I have stood too much already. What is your decision?” “About Rosalie?” “Yes.” “I--I hate her.” “And you will let this ugly passion get the better of you, along with others?” “You--you have ugly passions as well as I. Remember how you shook me--and--and all because of her.” And her hand went up to the pearls at her throat, consciously this time. “I have asked your forgiveness.” Then suddenly Marigold stiffened, and she asked sharply: “Is--is Timothy to be her child?” “Yes.” “Then I--I--will he die otherwise?” He simply nodded. Then a long silence. And at last Marigold’s face softened, and almost immediately every feature was twisted with pain and anguish. She put one hand up to her throat, as if stifling, and the other on to her open lips, white and drawn with pain, and, with her great eyes fixed on his, after one glance at the High Priest, she crept from the room. And, when she passed the Master, she crept far from him, near to the wall; yet all the time her eyes were fixed on his, and she looked like a wizened little woman, very plain and very old, and the wondrous dress seemed nothing but a wretched mockery. And closing the door behind her, she crept down the stairs, one by one, heavily, wearily, on into the open garden. And here the moon was shining brightly--but what was that to her? She crawled along through grounds and park, till she came to the Temple close--then towards a side door used only by those in authority, and thus into the Temple. And first she dragged herself towards the famous panels; and there the laughing, tender eyes looked down on her--the moon shining full upon the lovely face. “His mother. And I--I’m dying--because I wasn’t used to nursing sick people--and I caught his disease--that’s all.” And then she wandered out again to the central aisles, and for some time she stood there uncertainly. And then at last she whispered, the hollow echoes carrying the sound uncannily: “I’ll go to the Serpent. It won’t matter, and I must go to something--something strong. I’m dying.” And she climbed up the many steps and crept within the heavy curtains. And there the last pulse of feeling, given so strongly to her by St Armand earlier in the evening, suddenly snapped--for the strange fight had ended. And the fight being ended, and the wretched after-weakness gone, the child-like sweetness and beauty returned to her features; and stealing close to the golden table, she sank forward wearily upon the topmost step. “Little--little Patches.” A tear glided down her cheek, her lips parted in the same tender smile that once before had parted his, and the whole great building was silent--silent and lifeless too. CHAPTER XXVIII