“I love her as Dante loved Beatrice.” “And she is worthy?” “Worthy indeed.” Judith looked at the sky; her lips moved as in prayer; the sunlight played upon her face. “Would to God, Gabriel, she had come into your life before.” “Amen to that.” “This will prove a fiery trial to you both.” “Judith, I must stand betwixt her and the world.” “Well said, brother mine; remember, I am with you ever.” He kissed her, and passed on alone towards the house. A path betwixt yews led him to the garden below the terrace, a garden redolent of jasmine, lavender, and rose. A thousand flowers upturned their innocent faces at his feet. Beyond the balustrading of the terrace, with its rampart of red roses, Gabriel saw his father standing in the sun. The old man turned to meet him as he climbed the steps. There was a ruthlessness upon his stubborn face, an arrogance in his stout, stolid manner. John Strong stood out like a patriarch of old, save that there was but little ardor in his keen, gray eyes. Without one word to his son, and with no outstretching of the hand, he turned towards the library and entered by the open window, Gabriel following him. John Strong locked the door with the composure of a man sure of his own cause. Father and son faced each other in the silent room. The antique clock measured the moments with unhurried hand. John Strong was the first to open the debate. “A nice muddle you have made of life,” was his magnanimous decree. Gabriel, leaning against the carved pillar of the mantel-shelf, regarded his father with a melancholy smile. “So you believe these lies,” he said, with a twinge of scorn. John Strong retreated to the library chair before his escritoire and fingered a quill. “Let me tell you,” he began, “that you have acted like a scoundrel and a blackguard. Son of mine that you are, the evidence of your guilt is overwhelming. What can you plead to lessen you dishonor?” “That there is no truth in these allusions.” “Pah! Am I a fool?” “Has God made you a judge to read truth or evil in the hearts of others?” Gabriel walked the room behind his father’s chair. The summer sunshine smote into the room, and the incense of flowers perfumed the atmosphere. “Will you tell me,” said the son, “upon what evidence you base your condemnation?” “I am not here, sir, to argue.” “Nor to damn me—like a tyrant.” John Strong flashed round and stared in his son’s face. “Come,” he said; “have you had to do with this bawdy rustic, or have you not? There lies the pith of the problem.” Gabriel faced him, his shoulders squared. “I remember that you are my father,” he said. “A rare privilege, it seems.” “The instincts of a gentleman—” “Answer my question.” “—should keep you from dishonorable abuse.” John Strong’s temper burst its bonds. He sprang up, overturning his chair in the effort, and stood with his gray eyes gleaming under his bushy brows.