The door of the but was unlocked and unbarred. If she feared, it was easy to shoot the bolt and lock the door, to drop the bar across the little window, and be safe and secure. But no bodily fear possessed her- -only that terror of the spirit when its great trial comes suddenly and it shrinks back, though the mind be of faultless courage. She waited. There came a knocking at the door. She did not move from where she stood. "Come in," she said. She was composed and resolute now. The latch clicked, the door opened, and a cloaked figure entered, the shriek of the storm behind. The door closed again. The intruder took a step forward, his hat came off, the cloak was loosed and dropped upon the floor. Guida's premonition had been right: It was Philip. She did not speak. A stone could have been no colder as she stood in the light of the fire, her face still and strong, the eyes darkling, luminous. There was on her the dignity of the fearless, the pure in heart. "Guida!" Philip said, and took a step nearer, and paused. He was haggard, he had the look of one who had come upon a desperate errand. When she did not answer he said pleadingly: "Guida, won't you speak to me?" "The Duc de Bercy chooses a strange hour for his visit," she said quietly. "But see," he answered hurriedly; "what I have to say to you--" he paused, as though to choose the thing he should say first. "You can say nothing I need hear," she answered, looking him steadily in the eyes. "Ah, Guida," he cried, disconcerted by her cold composure, "for God's sake listen to me! To-night we have to face our fate. To-night you have to say--" "Fate was faced long ago. I have nothing to say." "Guida, I have repented of all. I have come now only to speak honestly of the wrong I did you. I have come to--" Scorn sharpened her words, though she spoke calmly: "You have forced yourself upon a woman's presence--and at this hour!" "I chose the only hour possible," he answered quickly. "Guida, the past cannot be changed, but we have the present and the future still. I have not come to justify myself, but to find a way to atone." "No atonement is possible." "You cannot deny me the right to confess to you that--" "To you denial should not seem hard usage," she answered slowly, "and confession should have witnesses--" She paused suggestively. The imputation that he of all men had the least right to resent denial; that, dishonest still, he was willing to justify her privately though not publicly; that repentance should have been open to the world--it all stung him. He threw out his hands in a gesture of protest. "As many witnesses as you will, but not now, not this hour, after all these years. Will you not at least listen to me, and then judge and act? Will you not hear me, Guida?"