As he balanced it in his fingers, his thoughts drifted away from the busy hard realities of life to that kindred soul and lovely face. That episode too was over. A barrier stood between them. Whatever the result of the revolt, she was lost to him, unless--and that terrible unless was pregnant with suggestions of such awful wickedness that his mind recoiled from it as a man's hand starts from some filthy thing he has by inadvertence touched. There were sins, sins against the commonwealth of mankind, against the phenomenon of life itself, the stigma of which would cling through death, and for which there was pardon only in annihilation. Yet he hated Molara with a fierce hatred; nor did he care to longer hide from himself the reason. And with the recollection of the reason his mind reverted to a softer mood. Would he ever see her again? Even the sound of her name pleased him; "Lucile," he whispered sadly. There was a quick step outside; the door opened, and she stood before him. He sprang up in mute astonishment. Lucile looked greatly embarrassed. Her mission was a delicate one. Indeed she did not know her own mind, or did not care to know it. It was for her husband's sake, she said to herself; but the words she spoke belied her. "I have come to tell you that I did not betray your secret." "I know,--I never feared," replied Savrola. "How do you know?" "I have not yet been arrested." "No, but he suspects." "Suspects what?" "That you are conspiring against the Republic." "Oh!" said Savrola, greatly relieved; "he has no proofs." "To-morrow he may have." "To-morrow will be too late." "Too late?" "Yes," said Savrola; "the game begins to-night." He took out his watch; it was a quarter to eleven. "At twelve o'clock you will hear the alarm-bells. Sit down, and let us talk." Lucile sat down mechanically.