Again the cricket, for a little space. The firelight was but faint. Suddenly he sank on his knees beside her, one hand on the bed roll that made her seat, so that he could look into her face. But her hands covered it. He touched her hand. It was wet with tears. Slowly he drew back. “What have I said? What have I done?” “Ah, you should be content!” she broke out presently. “You have your revenge!” “What do you mean? I can’t well stand to hear you say that. Revenge?” “Yes! Very well, I called you a thief once. Let that go. You are one now.” He was entirely silent for a long space, trying to understand. Then she felt her fingers caught in a clasp like steel. “Have I stolen anything I ought not to have taken? Tell me! Believe me, that one thing I never dreamed! I never thought that you—that you did—that you ever could! You don’t! You cannot! That can never be! That’s not possible! There are many men in the world for you—all of them—for you. I said only that there was no other woman but you in all the world for me. I didn’t ask or expect even justice, even mercy, from you!” “You are avenged!” said Anastasie Lockhart again. “It is noble of you! You—you reason well! You come in the night!” After all, how could they avoid youth, evade love? In some way, when or how, neither of them knew, they were standing. He had caught her up, they were face to face, body to body. Their arms found themselves about each other. He felt her arms about his neck, his shoulders; to her his clasp was like steel. He saw her face, pale, wet, wholly adorable, irresistible, a woman of a million. She saw his eyes, studious, marveling, frowning, his face one she never had seen before. It was done. It was too late. He struggled as though to put off a mask, as though some armor coat oppressed him. Their lips met as though they dreamed; they did not know of plan at all, were as two dazed, beyond volition, beyond right or wrong. It was he who drew back, half sobbing, still wrestling with that something, now that it was too late. He felt the swift rush of her awakened impetuous woman emotion, strong and sudden as though some dam had been disrupted to let an unmeasured torrent through; felt her arms slide back along the sides of his neck, her hands catch the sides of his face as they parted. Her face was not that of a country girl kissed merrily by some swain, or evilly; it was high, serious, not illusioned, calm; the face of a great soul in a splendid beauty, a woman of a million; a face terrible and young, as was his own. There were no tears now. The great hour, the one instant for two strong natures had arrived—had passed. If any theft were done it had been done. “You were a savage, a criminal!” said she after a time, voicing that. “But what is done is done, and what is written is written. Many men? Where? And I think I shall hate you now.” She heard his voice as of a man musing, chanting to himself: “I was strong! You are taking my strength away.