"I will tell you. In the first place, I shall never be angry with you again--never! Do you believe me, Gilbert?" "Of course I do," he answered, having nothing else to say. "Very well. But if I ever should be--" "But you just said that you never would be!" "I know; but if I should--just once--then take me in your arms, and say nothing, but kiss me as you did that day by the river." "I understand," he said. "Are you angry now?" But he was laughing. "Almost," she answered, glancing sideways in a smile. "Not quite?" "Yes, quite!" And her eyes darkened under the drooping lids. Then he held her so close to him that she was half breathless, and kissed her till it hurt, and she turned pale again, and her eyes were closed. [Illustration: THE WAY OF THE CROSS] "You see," she said very faintly, "I believe you now!" Here ends the story of Gilbert Warde's crusading; for he had reached the end of his Via Crucis in the Holy City, and had at last found peace for his soul, and light and rest for his heart, after many troubles and temptations, and after much brave fighting for the good cause of the Faith against unbelievers. After that he fought again with the army at Damascus, and saw how the princes betrayed one another, when the Emperor Conrad had come again, so that the siege of the strong town came to naught, and the armies were scattered among the rich gardens to gather fruit and drink strong wine, while their leaders wrangled. Also at Ascalon he drew sword again, and again he saw failure hanging over all, like an evil shadow, and chilling the courage in men, so that there was murmuring, and clamouring for the homeward path. There he saw how the great armies went to ruin and fell to pieces, because, as the holy Bernard had known, there was not the faith of other days, and also because there was no great leader, as Eleanor had told the abbot himself at Vezelay; and it was a sad sight, and one to sicken the souls of good men. But though he fought with all his might when swords were out, there was no sadness in him for all these things, for life and hope were bright before him. Little by little, too, he had heard how all the poor pilgrims left at Attalia had perished; but he knew that if he had led them, Beatrix would have died there in the court of the little house in Jerusalem, and he held her life more dear than the lives of many, whom his own could hardly have saved. Moreover, and last of all, he had learned and understood that the cause of God lies not buried among stones in any city, not even in the most holy city of all; for the place of Christ's suffering is in men's sinful hearts, and the glory of his resurrection is the saving of a soul from death to everlasting life, in refreshment and light and peace.