“You forbid me to say so, Joan,” I ran on, “because you do not trust me.” “Do not trust you, Dr. Fabos?” “Not sufficiently to say that I am about to save you from all dangers—even the danger of past years.” “You cannot do that—oh, you cannot do it, Dr. Fabos.” I covered her hand with my own, and tried to compel her to look me in the face. “When a woman learns to love and is loved she has no past,” I said. “All that should concern her is the happiness of the man to whom she has given her life. In your own case, I believe that we shall read the story of bygone years together and find it a sweet story. I do not know, Joan; I am only guessing; but I think it will be a story of a woman’s love and a father’s suffering, and of an innocent man upon whom the gates of prison were long closed. Say that the child of these two, entitled to a fortune in her own right, became the prey of a villain, and we shall be far upon our way. That’s the thought of your prophet. He would give much, Joan, if the facts were as he believes them to be.” Be sure she turned her head at this and looked me full in the face. I have never seen so many emotions expressed upon a childish face—joy, doubt, love, fear. Quick as all her race to read an enigma, she understood me almost as soon as I had spoken. A light of wondrous thankfulness shone in her eyes. There were long minutes together when we sat there in silence, and the only sound was that of her heart beating. “Oh,” she cried, “if it were true, Dr. Fabos, if it were true!” “I will prove it true before we have been in England a month.” She laughed a little sadly. “England—England. How far is England away? And my own dear America?” “Seven days in my yacht, _White Wings_.” “If we were birds to fly over the hills!” “The hills will be kind to us. To-day, to-morrow, whenever it is, Joan, will you cross the hills with me?” She promised me with a warmth that betrayed her desire. Fearing longer to dwell upon it, I left and went again to the little river to see what message it had for me. Did the waters still ebb away or had my fancy been an hallucination? Standing this day upon the very brink of the chasm through which the river flowed, I knew I was not mistaken. The stream had subsided by another foot at the least; it no longer raced and tumbled through the gorge; it was scarcely more than warm to the hand. Someone without had diverted its course and would dam it altogether when the good hour came. When that hour might be I had no means of knowing. But my course was clear. I must rest neither night nor day while deliverance was at hand; there must be neither sleeping nor waking for me until Okyada called me and the gate stood open.