was drawn struggling back from the perilous edge.
"Wretched woman! what are you doing?"
"Drowning myself; and by what right do you dare to stop me? Cannot one die in peace in this accursed city?" she cried. She had ceased to struggle with him.
Philip stood between her and the river, his hand upon her arm.
"One may die in peace, but one may not take one's own life; it is forbidden."
"By whom?"
"It is against the law of God and of man."
"And what are you who dare to stop me?"
What was he indeed, and by what right did he, the would-be suicide of an hour ago, endeavor to turn this poor girl from her bent?
"Don't you know me, Therese?"
She looked at him, and then the rage died from her face. She fell upon her knees at his feet and clasped his hand in both of hers, crying imploringly: "It is you, then! You are my friend, my only friend in this great city, where I am hunted like a dog. Let me die! let me die! What have I to live for?"
He could not answer her; knowing her miserable story, how could he—he of all men on God's earth that night—tell her why she must live and suffer when peace was so near at hand
