She looked at him, misery and fear still in her eyes, and her slight figure seemed to droop, and her hands hung heavy, listless, at her sides.

“I care”—­the words came in a strange mechanical way from her lips.  “Oh, I care.  I can’t—­I won’t go back to that.  And I know—­I know now.  I have learned what love is.”

Quick over Madison’s face surged the red in an unstemmed tide—­volcanic within him his love that he knew now possessed his very soul, jealousy that, blinding, robbed him of his senses, roused him to frenzy.

“Oh, you’ve learned what love is, have you—­with him!” he cried—­and sprang for her and snatched her into his arms.  “And you won’t come, eh?  Well, I’ve learned what love is too in the last month—­and if I can’t get it one way, I’ll get it another”—­he was raining mad kisses upon her face, her hair, her eyes—­“I love you, I tell you—­I love you!”

With a cry she tried to struggle from him—­and then fought and struck at him, beating upon his face with her fists.  Fiercer, closer he held her—­around the little room, staggering this way and that, they circled.  He kissed her, laughing hoarsely like a madman, laughing at the blows, beside himself, not knowing what he did—­mad—­mad—­mad.  He kissed her, kissed the white throat where the dress was torn now at the neck; imprisoned a little fist that struck at him and kissed the quivering knuckles; kissed the wealth of glorious, burnished-copper hair that, unloosened, fell about her, kissed it and buried his face in its rare fragrance.  And then—­and then his arms were empty—­and he was staring at the calm, majestic figure of the Patriarch—­and Helena was crouched upon the floor, and, sobbing, was clinging with arms entwined around the old man’s knees.

And so for a little while Madison stood and stared—­what had brought the Patriarch there—­the Patriarch who could neither see nor hear nor speak—­what had brought him from his own room across the hall!  And Madison stared, and his hands crept to his temples and pressed upon them—­weak he seemed as from some paroxysm of madness that had passed over him.  The sunlight streaming through the window sheened the luxuriant mass of hair that falling over shoulders and to the waist seemed alone to cloak the little figure in its crouched position—­the little figure that shook so convulsively with sobs—­the little figure that clung so desperately at the feet of this god-like, regal man, whose beard was silver, whose hair was hoary white, upon whose face, marring none its strength or self-possession, was a troubled, anxious, questioning look.

Strange!  Strange!  Madison’s hands fell to his sides.  The Patriarch’s eyes were turned full upon him, wavering not so much as by the fraction of an inch—­full upon him.  And then, as into some holy sanctuary, fending her from harm and danger, the Patriarch turned a little to interpose himself before Madison, and, raising Helena, held her in his arms, her head against his bosom—­and one hand lay upon her head and stroked it tenderly.  But upon Madison was still turned those sightless eyes, that noble face, serene, commanding even in its perturbation, even in its alert and searching look.