|FAR in the night he said to her: “It is the only way. I shall leave you to yourself now, Frieda. The rest is with God and you. Tomorrow morning they will take you away. They may--they probably will shoot you as a spy. I cannot save you,--nothing that I can do will be of avail in turning aside or tempering the wrath of Justice.” She sat, limply, with bowed head. Her fine body seemed to have shrivelled; emptied of its vitality, it had shrunk as with age before his eyes. Everything that had fed her blood for years seeped away, leaving a waste of sunken flesh: pride, arrogance, defiance, and, last of all, fury,--all had gone out of the house of her soul. There was nothing left but the pitiful thing called life. She raised her eyes. “I cannot take _your_ way out, Davenport,” she said dully. He pointed to the revolver he had laid on her dressing-table. “_That_, Frieda, is the only friend you have in all this world tonight.” “Oh, my God! Are you heartless? Have you no pity, no love, no--” “I have pity,--nothing more. Love? I have given you love for twenty years and more. You have defiled it. Do not speak of love!” “You know I love you--you know I would die for you a thousand times over. You are my man,--my master, my--” “Enough, Frieda! You have played a great game,--but an ignoble one,--and you have lost. You have begged me to--to become your executioner. You ask me to kill you. You--” “I do not ask it now,” she broke in, looking him full in the eye. “Go, Davenport. Leave me to myself. Thank you for--for being kind to me tonight,--after all. I have told you the truth,--you know everything that my conscience permits me to reveal. You know more than that man who sits out there like a vulture, waiting for--waiting for _me_. What I have confessed to you I would die a thousand times over rather than confess to another living soul. They could take me away tonight and torture me till I died, and not one word of what I have said to you would pass my lips. They know enough, but you alone know all. You say the world will never know what I have done. I do not care. Let the world know. I am proud of my blood--I rejoice in the little I have been able to do for----” “Hush! Do not say it.” “Very well. It hurts you. I do not want to hurt you now, husband. The world is to believe that I--that an accident--a sudden--” She buried her face in her hands. Her body shook. “I would spare your son, Frieda,” said he. She looked up, dry-eyed. A quick flash,--could it have been of joy?--lighted her haggard face. “Yes, yes,--he must be spared,” she cried. A deep, inscrutable expression came into her eyes. She drew a deep, full breath. “Thank God! He is young,--he has a long and useful life to live. I gave it him. That is the best, the biggest thing I have done. Now, go, Davenport. Shall we say--good-night?”