The next night had fallen, and the two were through with the shops of Fort de France. Paula's dress was white and lustrous, a strange native fabric which the man regarded with seriousness and awe. He was in white, too. His right hand was swathed for repairs, the arm slung, and a thickness of lint was fitted under his collar. About his eyes and mouth was a slight look of strain still, which could not live another day before the force of recuperative happiness.... Up through the streets of the Capital, they made their way. Casements were open to the night and the sea, but the people were dulled with grief. Martinique had lost her first born, and Fort de France, the gentle sister of Saint Pierre, was bowed with the spirit of weeping. They had loved and leaned on each other, this boy and girl of the Mother Island. Through the silent crowds, Charter and Paula walked, a part of the silence, passing the groves and towers, where the laws of France are born again for the little aliens; treading streets of darkness and moaning. A field of fire-lights shone ahead--red glow shining upon new canvas. This was the little colony of Father Fontanel, sustained by his American friend,--brands plucked from the burning of Saint Pierre. They passed the edge of the bivouac. A woman sat nursing her babe, fire-light upon her face and breast, drowsy little ones about her. Coffee and night-air and quavering lullabies; above all, ardent Josephine in marble, smiling and dreaming of Europe among the stars.... It was a powerful moment to Quentin Charter. Great joy and thrilling tragedy breathed upon his heart. He saw a tear upon Paula's cheek, and heard the low voice of Father Fontanel--like an echo across a stream. He saw them and hastened forward, more than white in the radiance. "It is the moment of ten thousand years!" he exclaimed, grasping their hands. Paula started, and turned to Charter whose gaze sank into her brain.... And so it came about unexpectedly; in the fire-light among the priest's beloved, under the Seven Palms and the ardent mystic smile of the Empress.... _Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart; for God hath already accepted thy works.... Let thy garments be always white; and let not thy head lack ointment. Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest, all the days of thy life._ The words rang in their ears, when they were alone in the city's darkness, and the fire-lights far behind. * * * * *