Pity! That would be worse than anything. Pity! Perhaps it would be: "Poor Geoffrey--but, you know..." The fatal "but." There would be no invitations for him--he might frighten the other guests! Not that he cared a damn; but supposing he married? ... And, like all mental arguments, his thoughts finished where they began--with Elizabeth. Because of his attempted suicide--for he did not blink his eyes to the fact that it was attempted suicide deliberately to invite the Reds to murder him--he must bear a cross during the rest of his life. That was his punishment--his face his cross. Or was it rather his hopeless love for Elizabeth? Those were days of bitterness! His brain no longer busy with schemes and plans for the succour of others, his time no longer fully taken up, his thoughts turned to himself and his future, and in desperation he fled to the empty _château_ to work out his own salvation, to forget! To forget! It was not long before he realized that of all the places in which to do this he had chosen the worst. What chance was there of forgetting when every corner reminded him of Elizabeth--perhaps she had sat there--or there--or there? She--she had slept in that room, he remembered--and that room became his shrine. In the woods were the flowers she had loved so much--their sweet, dewy smell was reminiscent of her, as was the purity of the white flowers, for they were her soul, the richness of the red flowers, for they were her cheeks, the softness of the pansies, for they were her eyes. The insects chirruped of her, the whispering of the wind through the forest trees sang of her, the tiny brooklet running near by babbled of her. Worst of all the moon, the broad, round face of the moon, as it majestically rose into the clear heavens, winked derisively at him, or frowned at him, shedding its silver beams through the interlaced boughs of the trees. So the days passed, the heart of Geoffrey growing more sullen and more cold, until the spirit of the White Knight wilted beneath the triple load of misery, self-torture, and hopeless love. The time arrived when he could not bear to look upon his own reflection, so he ceased to shave and grew a long, silky beard and a moustache. He fed on what stores the refugees had left behind, and slept on the rough bed which Arnold had used when he was at the _château_, living the life of a hermit, trying to forget ... trying to forget ... and failing! * * * * * * The moon was rising, just skirting the trees, when one night Geoffrey became conscious of voices. He was going to swear, but even as the words trembled on his lips he started, for he recognized the voices. Arnold and Elizabeth! What were they doing near the old _château_? He was in one of the front rooms, but like a wraith, and with as little noise, despite his great size, he slipped out into the surrounding forest, suspecting that they might enter the _château_.