“Somewhere, in desolate, wind-swept space, In Twilight land, in No-man’s land, Two wandering shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand. “‘And who are you?’ cried one, agape, Shuddering in the gloaming light, ‘I know not,’ said the second shape, ‘I only died last night.’” The picture had fascinated her profoundly until she had suddenly noticed that one of the shapes looked as if she had left her teeth on her death-bed. She laughed aloud suddenly. . . . For the first time she felt curious about the hereafter. Poetry had demonstrated to her that hereafter of some sort there must be: the poet sees only the soul of his creations, makes the soul talk as it would if untrammelled of flesh, and in unconscious forecast of its freedom. Browning, alone, would have taught her this. His greater poems were those of another and loftier world. No wonder poets were a mad unhappy race with their brief awakenings of the cosmic sense, their long contemplations of what should be, in awful contrast to what is. . . . Patience suddenly turned from the thoughts of the hereafter in shuddering horror. Then, as now, she should be alone. Perhaps it would be as well, if she were to look like that shape. . . . But she should know soon enough! Whimsies deserted her as abruptly as they had come. She realised with terrible vividness all that she was leaving, the sweetness of it, the beauty of it—and the awful part allotted to the man. She had imagined that in her last night on earth—if it came to that—her mind would dwell on the great problems of life; but she cried herself to sleep. XXIV Bourke and the priest arrived in Albany at two minutes past eight in the morning. A hack carried them to the governor’s house in less than ten minutes. Bourke’s ring was answered immediately. He had his card ready, also that of the priest. “Take these to the governor,” he said to the butler. “We must see him at once.” “The governor took the 8.13 express for New York.” Bourke uttered an oath which the priest did not rebuke. “Did he leave an answer to a telegram he received between two and five this morning?” “No, sir; no telegrams are ever sent here—by special orders, sir. They are all sent to the State House.” Bourke’s skin turned grey; his eyes dulled like those of a dying man. But only for a moment. His brain worked with its customary rapidity. “Come,” he said to the priest. “There is only one thing to do.” To the hackman he said: “Twenty dollars if you get to the station in five minutes.” He and the priest jumped into the hack. The driver lashed the horses. They dashed down the steep hills of Albany. Two policemen rushed after them, shouting angrily; but the horses galloped the faster, the driver bounding on his seat. People darted shrieking out of their way. Other teams pulled hastily aside, oaths flying.