His gaze was once more upon her face, and now, in a curiously cool little second of observation, he saw mirrored there the same conflicting duality that he knew raged within himself. In her eyes glowed the pure flame of fear and protest—but on her mad lips was the curl of provocation. And as the man in him had waited carelessly, in a sensuous luxury of unconcern, for his soul to go where it might—far up or far down—so now the woman waited before him in an incurious, unbiassed calm—the clear eyes with their grave, stern “_No_!”—the parted lips all but shuddering out their “_Yes_!” Still he looked and still the leaning woman waited—waited to welcome with impartial fervour the angel or the devil that might come forth. And then, as he lay so, there started with electric quickness, from some sudden coldness of recollection, the image of Prue. Sharp and vivid it shone from this chill of truth like a glittering star from the clean winter sky outside. Prue was before him with the tender blue of her eyes and the fleecy gold of her hair and her joy of a child—her little figure shrugging and nestling in his arms in happy faith—calling as she had called to him that morning—“_Joel—Joel—Joel_!” He shivered in this flood of cold, relentless light, yet unflinchingly did he keep his face turned full upon the truth it revealed. And this was now more than the image of the sweetheart he had sworn to cherish—it was also the image of himself vowed to his great mission. He knew that upon neither of these could he suffer a blemish to come if he would not be forever in agony. With appalling clearness the thing was lined out before him. The woman at his side stirred and his eyes were again upon her. At once she saw the truth in them. Her parted lips came together in a straight line, shutting the red fulness determinedly in. Then there shone from her eyes a glad, sweet welcome to the angel that had issued. His arms seemed to sicken, falling limply from her. She arose without speaking, and busied herself a little apart, her back to him. He sat up on the couch, looking about the little room curiously, as one recovering consciousness in strange surroundings. Then he began slowly to pull on the wet boots that she had placed near the fire. When he stood up, put on his coat, and reached for his hat, she came up to him, hesitating, timid. “You are so cold! If you would only stay here—I am afraid you will be sick.” He answered very gently: “It is better to go. I am strong again, now.” “I would—I would not be near you—and I am afraid for you to go out again in the cold.” He smiled a little. “_Nothing_ can hurt me now—I am strong.” He opened the door, breathing his fill of the icy air that rushed in. He stepped outside, then turned to her. She stood in the doorway, the light from the room melting the darkness about them.