“Beloved Lady, I understand:  for there was once upon a time a sad, neglected child, an ugly little lad, barefooted and poverty-stricken after his mother’s death.  There was an ignorant and undisciplined boy—­”

“You?” Her arms went around him protectingly, in a mothering and tender clasp.

“Who else?  And being very ignorant indeed, he sold himself into bondage for a mess of pottage, and was thrall for weary years.  He got exactly what he paid for.  And life was ashes upon his head and wormwood in his mouth, and his heart was empty in his breast, because he snatched at shadows.  And then one day the door of his prison was opened by the keeper, and he said, ‘Now I am free!’ But it was his fate to go down into hell for a season.  There were times when he asked himself, ‘Why don’t I blow out my brains and escape?’ Nothing but the simple faith and heroism of common men about him saved him from despair.  One day a blinded soldier said, ’See for us!’ So he began to see,—­but still without hope, still without happiness, until he came here and found—­you.”  His voice was melted gold.

She had listened breathlessly.  And after a pause she asked: 

“Who was—­the keeper of his prison?”

“The woman to whom he had been married.”

Her arms fell from him.  She tried to draw herself away, but he held her all the closer.

“Do not think unkindly of her.  I don’t think she really knew she was an ogress!  After all, she did unlock the door and say, ‘Go!’ And—­well, here I am, darling woman.  And I’m going to marry you!”

“Did you never love her?”

“Never.  I was so frightfully unhappy that the best I could do was not to hate her.  I’m afraid she hated me—­poor ogress!  Well!  That’s all over and done with.  Like an evil dream.  I’m here, and you’re going to marry me.”  Very gently he drew her arms around him again.  “Ah, hold fast to me!  Hold fast!  I have waited for you so long, I need you so much!” he breathed.

“I don’t seem able to help myself!” she sighed.  And she asked seriously:  “What do the people who love you most call you when they speak to you?”

The brown and bearded faces of comrades rose before him, their voices sounded in his ears.

“Pierre.”

“Pierre,” said she, bravely, as if to call him by his name emboldened her, “I too have been freed from a hateful marriage.  Sometime I will tell you all about it.  But—­oh, do not let us talk about it now!  I cannot bear to think of him!  I cannot bear to have his shadow, even, fall upon me now, or come near you!” That gangling bridegroom in his ill-fitting suit, with his wincing mouth, his eyes full of disgust and aversion, his air of a man sentenced to death—­or marriage with herself—­came before her, and she shivered.

Despite her words a horrible jealousy of that unknown man assailed him.  He asked fiercely: