“No, cherie, by Heaven, no!” he said, with vehemence.

“Then you’ll stay, Bertie?  You will stay?” Very earnestly she besought him.  Her tears were dropping on his hands.  “Say you will!”

For a moment longer he hesitated; he tried to resist her, he tried to take a sane and temperate view.  But those tears were too much for him.  They were the one torture he could not endure.  With a sharp gesture he flung his hesitation from him.  Yet even then he left himself a way of escape lest the temptation should be more than he could bear.

“I will stay,” he made grave reply, “as long as it would make you happy to have me with you—­that is”—­he checked himself—­“if Mr. Mordaunt desire it also.”

“But of course he does,” said Chris.  “He likes you.  And I—­I can’t do without you, Bertie—­not now.”

He heard the desolate note in her voice, and he did not contradict her.  Had he not sworn that while she needed him he would be at hand?

“Eh bien,” he said soothingly.  “I stay.”

That comforted her somewhat, and presently, at his persuasion, she sat up and dried her eyes.  It was too dark for them to see each other, but she held his hand very tightly; and there was comfort also in that.

“Now you will come away from here,” he said.  “Mr. Mordaunt is very troubled about you.  He would not come to you himself because he thought that you did not desire him.  But that was not true, no?”

Again that hard shudder went through Chris. She was silent for a little, them “Oh, Bertie,” she whispered, “I wish—­I wish—­it hadn’t been he who—­who—­” she broke off—­“you know what I mean.  You—­saw!”

Yes, he knew.  It was what Mordaunt himself had suspected, and loyally he entered the breach on his friend’s behalf.

“Cherie—­pardon me—­that is not a good wish—­not worthy of you.  That which he did was most merciful, most brave, and he did it himself because he would not trust another.  I wish it had been my hand—­not his.  Then you would have understood.”

“I almost wish it had been!” whispered Chris; and then, her words scarcely audible, “But—­but do you think—­he—­knew?”

“Le pauvre Cinders?” Very softly Bertrand spoke the dog’s name.  “No, Christine.  He did not know.  His head was turned the other way.  His eyes regarded only you.  And Mr. Mordaunt was so quiet, so steady.  He aim his revolver quite straight, and his hand tremble—­no, not once.  Oh, believe me, petite, it was better to end it so.”

“Yes, I know, only—­only”—­convulsively her hands closed upon his—­“Bertie—­Bertie—­dogs do go to heaven, don’t they?”

“I believe it, Christine.”

“You do really—­not just because I want you to?”

He drew her gently to her feet. “Cherie, I believe it, because I know that all love is eternal, and death is only an incident in eternity.  Where there is love there is no death.  Nothing that loves can die.  It is the Divine Spark that nothing can ever quench.”