The  voice  was  like  Keyork  Arabian's.  Unstrung,  almost
forgetting  all,  she  wondered  vaguely  at  the  sound,  for  it  was
a  real  sound  and  a  real  voice  to  her.  Was  her  soul  his,
indeed,  and  was  he  drawing  it  on  slowly,  -surely  to  the  end  ?
Had  he  been  behind  her  last  night  ?  Had  he  left  an  hour's
liberty  only  to  come  back  again  and  take  at  last  what  was
his?

There  is  time  yet,  you  have  not  lost  him,  for  he  thinks
you  mad.  The  voice  spoke  once  more.
And  at  the  same  moment  the  strong  dear  arms  were
again  around  her,  again  her  head  was  on  that  restful
shoulder  of  his,  again  her  pale  face  was  turned  up  to  his,
and  kisses  were  raining  on  her  tired  eyes,  while  broken
words  of  love  and  tenderness  made  music  through  the
tempest.
Again  the  vast  temptation  rose.  How  could  he  ever
know?  Who  was  to  undeceive  him,  if  he  was  not  yet  un-
deceived? Who  should  ever  make  him  understand  the
truth  so  long  as  the  spell  lasted?  Why  not  then  take
what  was  given  her,  and  when  the  end  came,  if  it  came,
then  tell  all  boldly  ?  Even  then,  he  would  not  understand.
