curiously, wonderingly, doubtfully over a great form outstretched upon the ground.
For a space, whose passing had no measure of time for him, Varge lay there. The day of madness had come, and it had been stronger than he—but now it had gone for a little season and the nakedness of it all was upon him—the realisation in all its glaring horror of what he would be bringing her to face, to endure, to suffer; the greatness of her sacrifice, a sacrifice that would alienate her forever from all friends and kindred; the thought of children that might come to them; the constant fear, the ever present dread of discovery no matter where they might be; the suspicion that would haunt them in every face they saw, that would be always hanging over them, crushing them down; the possibility of final capture, even if not until far on in the after years; the degradation, the shame that would follow and be her sure and only portion—the whole miserable picture of a desperate, hunted life, of what it meant to her, was before him now. And this, in her great, unselfish, boundless love, she had sought to share, to brighten the awful darkness with her own radiant presence. And he—the temptation had been too great for him, had blinded him, the yearning, the vision of Heaven that had been his had made mockery of resistance—and he had come this far, almost so far that there was no turning back—but now, before it was too late, he must save her from herself—from himself.
He lay face down, his head buried in his hands, his body motionless. He was stronger now than the temptation—for the moment—but, if subservient temporarily, this temptation was his ultimate master. He re-
