He made a sudden violent action that was more than a straightening of his powerful frame.  It was the old instinctive violence.  Then he faced north.  Madeline read his thought, knew he was thinking of her, calling her a last silent farewell.  He would serve her to his last breath, leave her free, keep his secret.  That picture of him, dark-browed, fire-eyed, strangely sad and strong, sank indelibly into Madeline’s heart of hearts.

The next instant he was striding forward, to force by bold and scornful presence a speedy fulfilment of his sentence.

Madeline stepped into the door, crossed the threshold.  Stewart staggered as if indeed the bullets he expected had pierced him in mortal wound.  His dark face turned white.  His eyes had the rapt stare, the wild fear of a man who saw an apparition, yet who doubted his sight.  Perhaps he had called to her as the Mexicans called to their Virgin; perhaps he imagined sudden death had come unawares, and this was her image appearing to him in some other life.

“Who—­are—­you?” he whispered, hoarsely.

She tried to lift her hands, failed, tried again, and held them out, trembling.

“It is I. Majesty.  Your wife!”