Reginald Sawyer’s voice continued; but what he said now she neither heard nor cared.  Her martyrdom could hardly suffer augmentation, the whole world seemed against her, she set apart, pilloried.—­But not alone.  Faircloth was set apart, pilloried, also.  And remembering this, her courage revived.  The horror of the crowd lifted.  For herself she could not fight; but for him she could fight, with strength and conviction, out of the greatness of her love for him, out of her recognition that the ignominy inflicted upon him was more bitter, more cruel, than any inflicted upon her.  For those who dare, in a moment the worst can turn best.—­She would make play with the freedom which this breach of convention, of social reticence, of moral discretion, conferred upon her.  The preacher had gone far in demolition.  She would go as far, and further, in construction, in restitution.  Would openly acknowledge the bond which joined Faircloth to her and to her people, by openly claiming his protection now, in this hour of her disgrace and supreme dismay.  She would offer no excuse, no apology.  Only there should be no more attempted concealment or evasion of the truth on her part, no furtiveness in his and her relation.  Once and for all she would make her declaration, cry it from the house-top in fearless yet tender pride.

Damaris stood up, conspicuous in her red dress amid that rather drab assembly as a leaping flame.  She turned about, fronting the perplexed and agitated congregation, her head carried high, her face austere for all its youthful softness, an heroic quality, something, indeed, superlative and grandiose in her bearing and expression, causing a shrinking in those who saw her and a certain sense of awe.

Her eyes sought Faircloth again.  Found him, and unfalteringly spoke with him, bidding him claim her as she, claimed him, bidding him come.  Which bidding he obeyed; and that at the same rather splendid level of sentiment, worthily sustaining her abounding faith in him.  For a touch of the heroic and superlative was present in his bearing and expression, also, as he came up the church between the well-filled pews—­these tenanted, to left and right, by some who figured in his daily life, figured in his earliest recollections, by others, newcomers, to him, even by sight, barely known; yet each and all, irrespective of age, rank, and position, affecting his outlook and mental atmosphere in some particular, as every human personality does and must, with whom one’s life, ever so transiently, is thrown.  Had he had time to consider them, this cloud of witnesses might have proved disturbing even to his masterful will and steady nerve.  But he had not time.  There was for him—­so perfectly—­the single object, the one searching yet lovely call to answer, the one act to be performed.

Reaching the front pew upon the gospel side, Darcy Faircloth took Damaris’ outstretched hand.  He looked her in the eyes, his own worshipful, ablaze at once with a great joy and a great anger; and then led her back, down the length of the aisle, through the west door into the liberty of the sunshine and the crisp northerly wind outside.