"But I cannot leave you, I cannot go, never to see you more--" and he grasped the cool white hands of the woman as a drowning man will grasp a straw. She did not attempt, for the time, to take them from him. She looked down upon him wistfully. "Would you make me the mock of Avalon?" she said. "Once my lord suspects we are lost. And, I fear, he does even now. For his gaze has been dark and troubled. And I cannot, will not, expose you to his cruelty. You know him not as I do--" "Even therefore will I not leave you," he interposed, looking into the sweet face. "He has not been kind to you. His pride was flattered by your ready surrender, and your great beauty is but one of the many dishes that go to satiate his varied appetites. Of the others you know naught--" She gave a shrug. "If it be so," she said wearily, "so let it be. Nevertheless, I know whereof I speak. This thing has stolen over us like a madness. And, like a madness, it will hurl us to our doom." Though he had seen the dark, glowering face among the branches, he said nothing, not to alarm her, not to cause her fear and misgiving. He loved her spotless purity as dearly as herself. To him they were inseparable. His head fell forward on her hands. Her fingers played in his soft brown hair. "What would you have me do?" he said, his voice choked by his anguish. "Go on a pilgrimage to Rome, to obtain forgiveness, as I shall visit the holy shrines of Mont Beliard and do likewise," she said, steadying her voice with an effort. "Let us forget that we have ever met--that we have ever loved,--or remember that we loved--a dream."-- "Can love forget so readily?" he said, bitter anguish and reproach in his tones. She shook her head. "It is my fate,--for better--or worse--no matter what befall. As for you--life lies before you. Love another, happier woman, one that is free to give--and to receive. As for me--" She paused and covered her face with her hands. "What will you do?" he cried in his over-mastering anguish. A faint, far-off voice made reply. "I shall do that which I must!" He staggered away from her. She should not see the scalding tears that coursed down his cheeks. But, as he turned, he again saw the dark and glowering face, the brow gloomy as a thunder-cloud, of the Count de Laval. But again it was not he. It was the black-garbed, lithe stranger, the companion of the hunchback, who was regarding Hellayne with evil, leering eyes. He wanted to cry out, warn her, entreat her to fly.-- But it was too late. Like a bird that watches spellbound the approach of the snake, Hellayne stood pale and trembling--her cheeks white as death--her eyes riveted on the evil shape that seemed the fiend. But he, Tristan, also was encompassed by the same spell. He could not move--he could not cry out. With a bound, swift and noiseless as the panther's, he saw the sinewy stranger hurl himself upon Hellayne, picking her up like a feather and disappear in the gloom of the forest.