“Would to God she were murdered!” cried Herold in a shrill voice. “Would to God she were dead! She should be killed outright like a wild beast. But not by him, oh, not by him! It would be whirling catastrophe and chaos.” He walked wildly and uttered senseless things. Then he halted. “But why should he know? Why should she tell him? Why should she invite her own destruction? No, she can't have told him.” He took her by her shoulders. “Unity, he must never know. He would kill her. It's a hanging matter. It's unthinkable. Swear you will never tell him.” “I 'll never tell him,” said Unity. “He must be saved,” continued Herold, on the same note, his sensitive face pinched and his eyes eager. “And she must be saved. All this is killing them both--both of those who matter all the world to you and me. This thing of infamy is standing between them and blasting their lives. She will live, and they will be destroyed.” “If she were dead, would they come together?” asked Unity. “Why not? What's to prevent them? Time and love would clear up clouds. But she--the unutterable--she will live. She will work in the dark, as she did that night when she stabbed you.” “I'm not thinking of that,” said Unity. “But I am.” He waved her disclaimer aside, not appreciating for the moment how immeasurably was she lifted above the plane of personal desire for vengeance. “I am,” he repeated. “She is walking murder. She meant to murder you. She meant to murder Stellamaris. Think of it!” He threw out his arms in a wide gesture. “There's a path down there--round the face of the cliff--” “I know it,” said Unity. “There 's a bench. I used to sit there.” “She lured her there. You know--it's sheer above and sheer below and rocks beneath. She played with her, cat and mouse, would have thrown her over, dashed her down, Unity--dashed that precious, beautiful body down on to the rocks! But she did n't. God sent somebody to save her--to save her life that time. But she failed. She will try again. She will work her devilishness against her--against him--against you.” “I tell you, I don't care what she does to me,” she interrupted roughly. “What the hell does it matter what she does to me?”--It was the aboriginal gutter transcendentalized that spoke--'“Leave me and her out of it. I 've nothing against her. I 'm not a silly fool. If it had n't been for her, I should n't be here living like a lady. I ain't a lady, but I'm supposed to be one. And I should n't have known him, and I should n't have loved him. And I should n't have known my precious one--and I should n't have known you. I should have scrubbed floors and washed up plates in a lodging-house--all I was fit for. I 've nothing against her--nothing. She can do what she likes with me; but with him and her--” She broke off on the up-note. “Yes, you and I don't matter. We can put our foot on the neck of our own little devils, can't we?”