I saw in what deadly peril was my sweet well-beloved. She was in fear of him. Perhaps he, on his part, held some secret of hers. From her attitude I suspected this. If so, then any word of mine to the police would bring to her only ruin and disgrace! CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. CHILDREN OF CIRCUMSTANCE. Was any man more pitiful, more foolish, more pathetically lonely, more grotesquely fooled by Fate than I? Was all the world a lie? Upon the face of my love was a trouble that for once clouded its wondrous beauty. I tried to touch her hair, but she avoided me by a gesture that made me shrink a little. The years, the tranquil sorrow of my late life dropped from me; I became again only the fierce, fearless, thoughtless lover; the man who had walked with her and adored her beside that summer sea so long ago. A madness of determination came to me. At all hazards she should be mine. Shacklock was a liar and a schemer, a thief and an adventurer. I would bear witness against him, even at risk of the vendetta which would inevitably fall upon me. She saw my changed face, and for the first time clung to me. "Godfrey!" she whispered hoarsely, "have pity upon me, and remain silent. Any word from you must reflect upon myself." "I will not allow you to make this self-sacrifice," I cried fiercely. "Remember Blumenthal." "It was for my father's sake," she replied. "To save him." "And now?" She did not answer for several moments. Then in a low voice broken by emotion she said:-- "To save myself." "But it is madness!" I cried. "In what manner can you be in the power of such a man? You surely know what he is?" "Alas! I do--too well. If he had one grain of sympathy or feeling he would surely release me." "And your father approves of this shameful engagement?" "He does, because he is ignorant of the truth." "Then I will tell him," I said. "You shall never fall into that man's hands. I love you, Ella--I love you with all the strength of my being-- with all my soul. If you are beneath the thrall of this adventurer, it is my duty to extricate you." "Ah! you can't--you can't," she cried. "If you only could, how gladly would I welcome freedom--freedom to love you, Godfrey!" and she clung to me tremblingly. "But it is all a vague dream of the unattainable," she went on. "My whole life is on fire with shame, and my whole soul is sick with falsehood. Between your life and mine, Godfrey, there is a deep gulf fixed. I lied to you long ago--lied to save my dear father from ruin, and you have forgiven. And now--Oh! God! I shudder as I think--my life will be alone, all alone always." I held her trembling hand in silence, and saw the tears streaming down her white cheeks. I could utter no word. What she had said thrust home to me the bitter truth that she must bow to that man's will, even though I stood firm and valiant as her champion. My defiance would only mean her ruin.