She went to the southern window, rested her elbows on the sill, and pressed the finger-tips of both hands against her forehead. The soft south-west wind, bringing the salt from the dancing sea, played about her hair. Unity had laid down her life to save those she loved. So had Christ done--given his life for humanity. But Christ had not killed a human being, no matter how murderous, and had not taken his own life. No, no; she must not mix up things irreconcilable. She faced the room again. What did people do when they killed? What were the common, practical steps that they took to gain their ends? Her mind suddenly grew vague. Herold had spoken of newspapers. She must see them; she must know everything. Life was deadly conflict, and knowledge the only weapon. For a few seconds she stood in the middle of the room, her young bosom heaving, her dark eyes wide with the diamond glints in their depths. Life was a deadly conflict. She would fight, she would conquer. Others miserably weaker than herself survived. Pride and race and splendid purity of soul sheathed her in cold armour. A jingle, separated from context, came into her mind, and in many ways it was a child's mind: Then spake Sir Thomas Howard, “ 'Fore God, I am no coward.” “'Fore God, I am no coward,” she repeated, and with her delicate head erect she went out and down the stairs and entered the dining-room. There she found Sir Oliver and Lady Blount sitting at a neglected breakfast. The old faces strove pitifully to smile. Stella kissed them in turn, and with her hand lingering on the old man's arm, she gave him Herold's letter. “Is it in the newspapers?” she asked. “What, what, my dear?” said Sir Oliver, adjusting his glasses on his nose with fumbling fingers. She looked from one to the other. Then her eyes fell on the morning papers lying on the table. They were folded so that a great head-line stared hideously. “Oh, darling, don't read it--for Heaven's sake do n't read it,” cried Lady Blount, clutching the nearer newspaper. But Stella took up the other. “I must, dearest,” she said very gently. “Walter has written to me; but he could not tell me everything.” She moved to the window that overlooked the pleasant garden, and with steady eyes read the vulgar and soul-withering report, while the two old people, head to head, puzzled out Herold's scrawl. When she had finished, she laid the paper quietly at the foot of the table and came and stood between them, revolted by the callous publication of names, almost physically sickened by the realistic picture of the scene, her head whirling. She caught hold of the back of Sir Oliver's chair. “The newspaper lies,” she said, “but it does n't know any better. Walter tells us why she did it.” Sir Oliver, elbow on table, held the letter in his shaking grasp. It dropped, and his head sank on his hand.