walked along the shore. Men were becoming reckless; the hosts of evil triumphed on every side.
The thought which came to her as Gortre had gradually unfolded the object of his visit was startling. She herself might perhaps prove to be the pivot upon which these great events were turning. It was possible that by her words, that by means of her help, the dark conspiracy might be unveiled and the world freed from its burden. She herself might be able to do all this, a kind of thank-offering for the miraculous change that had been wrought in her life.
Yet, when it was all summed up, how little she had to tell Gortre after all! True, her information was of some value; it seemed to confirm what he and his friends suspected. But still it was very little, and it meant long delay, if she could provide no other key to open this dark door. And meanwhile souls were dying and sinking. . . .
She had asked Gortre to come to her again in a week.
In that time, she had said, she might have some further information for him.
And now she was out here, alone on the sands, to ask her soul and God what she was to do.
The clouds fell lower, a cutting wind began to moan and cry over the sand, which was swept up and swirled in her face. And still she went on with a bitterness and chill as of death in her heart.
She knew her power over her former lover, — if that pure word could describe such an unhallowed passion, — knew her power well. He would be as wax in her hands, and it had always been so. From the very first she had done what she liked with him, and there had always been an undercurrent of contempt in her thoughts that a man could be led so easily, could be made the doll and puppet of his own passion. Nor did she doubt
