"You speak, at least, as though you had studied life--and history." "I have lived. And I have seen some history made--for a cause. Sir, a great cause. Men will fight for that again, here, on this soil, not under man-made laws, but under a higher and greater law. You love my body. You do not love my mind. I love them, both. Yes, I am student of the law. Humanity! Is it not larger than we? Is this narrow, selfish life of yours all you can see--of life--of this law?" "Yes," said Dunwody, grinning painfully. "I reckon maybe it was one of those 'higher law' abolitionists that shot me!" "Shot? What do you mean?" Forgetting philosophy, she turned swiftly. Yet even as she spoke she now for the first time caught sight of the dark rimmed rent in his trousers leg, noted the uneasy fashion in which he held his weight. "No one told me you were hurt--I thought you only tired, or perhaps bruised by some accident--when you fell, in there." "No; shot," he replied. "Shot right in here, through the edge of the bone. When I tripped and fell, there in the hall, I broke the bone short off--it was only nicked at first." "And you have been standing here, talking to me, with _that_?" She stepped to him swiftly and placed a hand under his arm. "You must go in. Come. Can you walk?" Through his nerves, racked as they were, there swept a flood of joy, more sweet than that of any drug. He could see the blown hair about her ears, see the round of her neck, the curve of her body as she bent to aid him, putting her free arm under his, forgetful of everything in her woman's wish to allay suffering, to brood, to protect, to increase life. They passed through the door toward the foot of the stairs. Here she turned to him. "The pain is very great?" she inquired. "The pain at thinking of your going away is very great," he answered. One hand on the newel post, he bent down, his head on his arm for an instant. "Oh, you're making me _pay_!" he groaned. But the next moment he turned on her defiantly. "I'll not learn! If this was the only way for me to meet you, then I'll not regret a single thing I've done. I'll not! I'll not! I'll not pay! It all comes back to me, just what I said before. What couldn't we do, _together_?--I need you--I need you!" "You must go to your room. You've been standing for an hour." "But I've been with you. I can't hope for another hour like this. You'll be leaving me. But I'd live the hour over again--in hell with you!" "I told you, when we all gave parole, that I would exact my price of you, in regret, in remorse." "You shall not have it in regret, I'll not regret. But I'm paying! See, I'm telling you you may go, that you must go--away from me." CHAPTER XX THE ART OF DOCTOR JAMIESON