She caught her breath, pressed a hand over her heart, spoke hurriedly and huskily, like one faint with suffering. “To-night my father had a letter,” she said, “a letter with a great red seal. What was in it, Heaven only can declare. Ah! he was furious, mad—he raved at me—” She faltered and drooped. Gabriel bent to her; his arm went about her shoulders, his face overhung hers. “Yes, yes!” “He raved at me, such words I cannot speak them nor understand—” “Joan!” “He turned me from the house.” “Joan!” “I have come to you.” The man stood back from her, white to the lips, his eyes strangely bright as he stared out into the gloom of the garden. A thousand clarions seemed sounding in his brain, a thousand roses burning in the night. The silence between them was as the calm before some passionate burst of song. Joan was the first to speak again. “Gabriel!” she said. “Ah!” “You will not fail me?” The blood flooded to Gabriel’s face; he strode forward, held out both his hands. The girl rose and came to him with a great light shining in her eyes. Her cloak fell from her shoulders as she hung in the man’s arms. “Gabriel, what could I do?” “This is God’s desire.” “You will not turn me away?” “My life, are you not mine? We will face the world together.” She lay heavy in his arms, as though her whole soul hung upon his strength. Presently she turned her face to his and he kissed her upon the lips. For a while there was silence between them. Then Gabriel lifted up his hand like one who makes a vow to Heaven. “God judge me,” he said—“I had not worked for this. The world has outraged us; so be it; I defy the world! Henceforth I fling away my rotten reputation and my friends. Let all the fantasies of fools be dust! Lover and beloved, we will go out together into the night!” PART IV XXXV DIVORCE-COURT proceedings can be confidently abandoned to the admirable frankness of the Sabbath press. The “Strong romance” had produced some excitement in cultured circles, and provided the Saltire moralists with a fable that promised to serve for many generations. Seeing that there had been no defence, and that the case had progressed with unsensational speed, it had failed to become notorious in any popular sense. Fashion had not flattered it, nor had it been wildly paragraphed in the evening papers. There had been no thrashing out of delicate details, so that the “mess” was not highly savored enough to please the public palate. Honest gold had gilded the tongues of unprejudiced and veracious witnesses. Truth, hired for the occasion, had blown her brazen trumpet in the court, a fine fan-fan in praise of justice. Maltravers’ guineas had instilled wondrous intelligence into sundry rustic noddles. Ophelia, a matrimonial martyr, had been crowned with the crown of virgin liberty.