Their many failures trooped up out of the past and mocked at her; because of them he must die.  They had gone with feverish haste from hope to hope to this dread end!  Perhaps she had never really believed before that the day and hour would overtake them; when effort would promise nothing.  But now the very sense of tragedy filled that silent morning, and her soul was in fearful companionship with it.  A flood of wild imaginings swept her forward, across the little space of time that was left to her lover.  Gasping for breath, she struggled with the grim horror that was growing up about him.  His awful solitude came to her as a reproach; she should have remained with him to the end!  Was there yet time to go back, or would she be too late?  When?  When?  And she asked herself the question she had not dared to ask of her father.

The day showed her the distant roofs of Mount Hope; the day showed her the square brick tower of the court-house—­living or dead, John North was in its very shadow.  She crouched by the window, her arms resting on the ledge and her eyes fixed on the distant tower.  How had the night passed for him—­had he slept?  And the pity of those lonely hours brought the tears to her burning eyes.  She heard her father come slowly down the hall; he paused before her door.

“Elizabeth—­dear!” his voice was very gentle.

“Yes, father?”

But she did not change her position at the window.

“Won’t you come down-stairs, dear?” he said.

“I can not—­” and then she felt the selfishness of her refusal, and added:  “I will be down in a moment, I—­I have not quite finished dressing—­yet!”

John North had thought always of others.  In the moment of his supremest agony, he had spoken not at all of himself; by word or look he had added nothing to the sorrow that was crushing her.  This had been genuine courage.

“I must remember it always!” she told herself, as she turned away from the window.  “I must not be selfish—­he would not understand it—­”

Her father was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, and the glance he bent on her was keen with anxiety.  Perfect understanding existed between them no less now than formerly, but the anguish which had left its impress on that white face removed her beyond any attempted expression of sympathy from him.

At the end of the hail the open door gave a wide vista of well-kept lawns.  Elizabeth turned swiftly to this doorway.  Her father kept his place at her side, and together they passed from the house out into the warm day.  Suddenly the girl paused, and her eager gaze was directed toward Mount Hope—­toward him.

“Would it be too late to go to him now?” she asked in a feverish whisper.

A spasm of pain contracted the old general’s haggard face, but the question found him mute.

“Would it be too late?” she repeated.

“He would not desire it, Elizabeth,” replied her father.