A pair of eyes in which the lightnings had gathered and gone wild had looked upon the whole of this tender scene except the last moments of it. Hayward Graham felt the devils in the blood of all his ancestors white and black cry to be uncaged as he looked upon Lodge in his ecstasy of love-making, and when Lodge took Helen’s hand and it was not withdrawn, the devils broke the bars. "So," cried Hayward in his soul, "it’s for you—to resign her to your arms—that I am asked to die! No! If I may not possess her, not you, you hound!" A door was wrenched open and Lodge had only time to straighten himself before he was knocked senseless by the infuriated husband. Hayward drew himself up, terrible, before his wife, and Helen in the moment of recognition threw herself into his arms with a glad cry. "Oh, you have come at last!" she moaned. "You got my letter at last and have come to me!" "No. What letter?" asked Hayward—but as he asked it Helen was pushing herself from him as savagely as she freely had thrown herself to him. Her ear had caught the sound of people approaching. Hayward was too confused to notice that. He was in consternation at the lightning change from love to aversion, and clung to her desperately. A second later he was lying prone upon the floor with Evans Rutledge standing above him, murder in his eyes. He made a wild attempt to rise, when another terrific blow from Rutledge’s arm sent him again to the floor. The hall was in an uproar, and a couple of palms were knocked aside as President Phillips burst into the midst of the mêlée in time to restrain another smash from Rutledge’s clenched fist. "In the name of God, what’s the row?" he asked. "This nigger has assaulted Miss Helen," said Rutledge, gasping and choking with fury. Mr. Phillips trembled with a fearful passion, but, seeing Helen apparently unhurt, pulled himself down to a terrible quiet. "Get up," he growled to Hayward. "Now"—when the footman was on his feet—"what have you to say for yourself?" Hayward looked for the hundredth part of a second in Helen’s eyes. "I have no excuse," he answered simply. Only silence could greet such an admission. For five seconds the silence and the stillness were torturing. As Mr. Phillips moved to speak, Helen took two quick steps to the negro’s side. His renunciation, his silent, unhesitating committal of the issue—of his life—to her decision, had touched her heart. "I am his wife," she said, as she took his hand and turned to face the circle of her friends. [Illustration: "’I AM HIS WIFE,’ SHE SAID."] *CHAPTER XXXII* Helen’s announcement was made quietly, without any melodramatic display.