They were silent again, and in that silence the sun grew behind streaked clouds. Lalette was so tired and sore that she felt she must say something about it, but just before endurance reached its limit, they came to the famous bridge of boats at Gogau, with its inn on the opposite bank, and Rodvard said; “Let us rest here and take refreshment.” He helped her down and inside to a seat, still without words, and a round-cheeked innkeeper came to them with a good morning. After he had gone, Rodvard said: “No . . . I do not know quite what I wished or what I wish now; but I am sure it is not to be compelled to use all I have in Mathurin’s way. . . .” He stared across the room away from her, and she (grateful that he was not looking to read her thought with the Blue Star) said; “Do you think he can make his regency stand?” “I do not know, but I think not in the long run. If Prince Pavinius has beaten the Tritulaccans so badly . . .” He touched the jacket where the cold stone lay. “This is not me, and I’ll not be ruled by it, no more than you by your gift of witchery.” She shuddered slightly. “It is a gift I never wished.” Now his face showed trouble. He stood up and paced the floor, then turned to the inn portal, where after a moment she joined him, looking out. The sun had daunted down the clouds, picking everything out in winter’s white gold; beneath them the river hurried past, carrying little pieces of ice against the black boats. At last he said; “Somewhere I have lost the line. . . . I suppose that the most we can do is try to use the lesser evil to overcome the greater, forgiving what we can. . . . It is I who ask you to forgive me.” She put an arm around his waist. “You do not need to. I think I love you.” For an enchanted moment they stood so. Then Rodvard’s hands went to his neck, and with a swift motion, he drew out the Blue Star, over his head and holding it in his hand, glanced at the stream and then at Lalette. “Yes,” she said. It made only a small splash where it struck the water. Epilogue In view of the speed with which the low-hung clouds were driving past the window, there would evidently be no business with ducks that day. Hodge helped himself to more coffee. “I wonder what happened to them afterward,” he said. “Does it matter?” said Penfield. “When an emotional problem is solved, the others become unreal.” “You don’t consider poverty a real problem?” asked McCall. “Only in a social and relative sense. Go look at the natives in the hill-country of any Latin-American state. They live on rice, beans and fifteen cents a day, and remain quite happy.”