“And what had begun just in mad passion would have grown into real love between us—­for we were made for one another Sabine—­did you never think of that?—­just the same sort of natures—­vigorous and all alive and passionate, with the same joy of life in our blood.  We would have been supremely happy.  But I was so frightfully arrogant in those days, and when I spoke I was deadly ashamed of myself, and then furious with you for daring to defy me and going after all.  No one had ever disobeyed me.  But it was shame really which made me agree to join Latimer Berkeley’s expedition at once—­the letter came by the early post.  I wanted to get right away and try to forget what I had done—­and since you had expressed your will, I just left you to stand by it.”  He leaned upon the mantelpiece now and buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, how wrong I was!  Because you were so young I should have known that you could not judge—­and perhaps acted hastily in that sort of reaction which always comes to one after passion—­and I should have followed you and brought you back.”

His tones shook with anguish now.  “Well, I am punished—­and so all that is left for us to do is to say good-bye, my dear, and let us each go our ways.  You, at least, are not suffering as I am—­because you do not care.”

A little sob came in Sabine’s throat, and she could not reply.  She could only take in the splendor of his figure and his grace as he leaned there with dark bent head.  And so, in a silence that seemed to throb and thrill, they stood near together for a few moments with hearts at breaking point.

Then he controlled himself; he must go at once or he could no longer answer for what he might do.  She looked so sweet and sorrowful standing close to his side, her violet eyes lowered so that their long lashes made a shadow upon her dimpled cheek.

Intense magnetic attraction drew them nearer and nearer.

“Sabine!” he cried at last, hoarsely, as though the words were torn from his tortured heart.  “There is something about you which tells me that you do not love Henry—­that he has never made you feel—­as I once made you feel, and could make you feel again.”  He stretched out his arms in pain.  “The temptation is frightful—­terrible—­just to kiss you once more—­Darling—­Oh!  I cannot bear it.  I must go!” and he took a step away from her.

But the Moment for Sabine had come; she could resist its force no more, every nerve in her whole body was quivering—­every unknown, though half-guessed emotion was stirring her soul.  Her whole being seemed to be convulsed in one concentrated desire.  The reality had materialized the echoes she had often dimly felt from that night of long ago.

The wild passion which she had feared, and only that very evening had repudiated as being an impossible experience for her, had now overtaken her, and she could struggle no more.

“Michael!” she whispered breathlessly, and held out her arms.