ness. . . . If you want to be free also you must reject me of your own accord, with your own will. Are you strong enough?
As she removed her hands from his shoulders, Gunnar bowed his head into his palms and wept.
Gunnar, Gunnar, I am so sorry, so very sorry. Campaspe tried to console him.
Can't you see how unfair you are? he inquired at last. You are only giving your strength to my weakness, which binds me to you ten times more tightly. I could only escape if you wanted me as much as I want you. Then I might use my will. Now, it is you who have rejected me. You are offering me a shell to play with, a shell which would enclose and bind me to you, while you are bound to nothing.
That, Campaspe averred sadly, I cannot help. I can give you no more than I can give you. I am compelled to tell you the truth: I am free.
Then, he said, rising, there remains but one thing for me to do.
She did not try to comfort him further. She knew the vanity of any such attempt. As she led him stumbling from the house, it appeared to her that the amber glow about his brow flickered uncertainly. Suddenly, without a word of farewell, he dashed away down the rain-swept street.
At a quarter before eight, Frederika was fastening the hooks on Campaspe's silver gown. Cam-
