But the third had the key in the door; had turned it, when Eugene struck him from behind. With a wild yell he flung his full weight on the door; it burst open, and the two fell headlong into the tower beyond. But only for a second. Eugene Smith was up again, had the key out, and in on the further side. "All right!" he shouted; "make a rush for it! I'm ready!" Vincent Dering gave one sharp look round. The door was not four yards from him, but the crowd was not one. There was no time. "Shut it," he called, "I'm all right." Eugene Smith stood uncertain; the door ajar. The keys! ah! what could he do with the keys if he went back to help--and if not-- "Oh! please shut it, Smith! there's a good fellow; please." The four yards were two now, were one. Then slowly the door closed, and Vincent had his back against it. "Oh, Vincent! Vincent!" The agonized cry echoed above all other cries, but only for an instant; the next, George Dillon's hand was gagging the lips which uttered it. "Hush!" he said fiercely. "Can't you let him forget for these last few minutes that there is such a thing as a woman in the world. Hush! I say." And a great hush came. The sound of blows, of iron clashing on iron, and falling with a dull thud on something softer, seemed to fill the world and leave room for nothing else. Nothing except a softer sound still. A shuddering moan, as a woman slipped to her knees, and covered her face with her hands; then slipped lower still to the ground, in a heap. But the child looked at her mother, surprised. "Doesn't 'oo like Derin' darlin' to be brave, dearest?" she asked, in a concerned little voice. CHAPTER XXV DAWN Had an hour passed, or twain? Ninian Bruce could not tell. It seemed to him that he had been kneeling for a lifetime, there on the altar steps beside the dying girl, with the glittering red-and-gold drapery trailing to the white marble, and opening to a white breast stained red,--a brighter red! A long lifetime; long as his own; that long life in which he had seen, had felt, so much. For as he waited for her inevitable death, his mind had followed that long life of his own, year after year, day after day, hour after hour. And everywhere it had seen a woman's eyes, a woman's soul, looking back from a soul, from eyes, that should have been a man's. Yes! the keynote of that long life had been the love of a woman. Passionate love, absorbing mind as well as body, claiming its reward in kind; as such love always does. In kind! There lay the whole difference between _anathema_ and _beata_. They were both _karma_, or desire!