Then he looked at her, and spoke with vehemence. “And what is that to you? What is, failure in such a cause, to such as you?” But she could not meet his face, kept hers rigidly to the front. “The cause,” Morosine told her, “is everything, the aim, the loyalty, the great surrender. Beside this failure is nothing at all. Do you say that the sapling fails that springs out of a cleft rock and towers--seeking, as we all seek, the sun, the light in heaven? A gale gathers it up and tears it out: over it goes, and lies shattered. Is that failure? How can it be when nothing dies?” Sanchia, very pale, turned her face to his at last. Her mouth was drawn down at the corners, to the tragic droop. She almost whispered the words, “Something did die.” His intuition worked like a woman's, in flashes. He knew immediately what she meant. “I know, I know,” he said. “You were mistaken. But you never faltered. You followed a call.” “You tell me,” she said, “that there was none.” “I do.” “But,” she argued, “that with which I began failed me. I was entirely certain, at the time; I could not possibly have hesitated. And then--it died.” Her eyes loomed large. “It is quite dead now, and I feel that I have betrayed myself--broken faith with myself.” He shook his head. “You could not break faith; you are the soul of truth.” This praise she accepted. “I don't tell lies, I hope--and I don't shirk things. But you see that I can stultify my own acts. I believed, and acted on my belief; and then I ceased to believe, and acted on that. I cannot trust myself--I ought to be ashamed to say so, and I hope I am.” Morosine met her eyes again, and held them. “I can never believe that you would fail. I tell you that you have not failed. It is that you have been failed. You cannot give if what you give is not taken. Failed--you! Ah, no, you have succeeded, I think.” She bent her brows as she faced resolutely forward. “I must take the consequences of what I have done. I see that.” “Ah,” said Morosine, “that is a question of courage. Courage you have.” “I need it,” she said in a hush, and stopped dead. Ingram stood before her, and took off his hat. “Well, Sanchia,” he said, “here I am.” [Illustration: “Well, Sanchia,” he said. “Here I am.”] VIII The scattered party was suddenly strung to tensity; Morosine drew himself up, stiff as steel, but stood his ground. Here was the man he had waited for, who was necessary to him. Lady Maria, blinking her little black eyes, Melusine, with hers in a blur of mist, Gerald Scales, level and impassive, joined the other three. Ingram, with a stretched smile, was volubly explaining. “I've been in London a week--to-day's the first glimpse of the sun I've had. I do think they might make better arrangements for a man home from Africa. I met your mother last night at a play. She told me that I might see you here.” He turned, without effrontery, to greet Melusine. “Ages since we have met. Ah, Scales, how are you?”