Pocahontas wandered softly here and there, soothed by the peace, comforted by the music.  On one side there was a small chapel, built by piety in memory of death.  Pocahontas entered it.  Here, too, lights burned upon the altar, shedding a soft, golden radiance that was caught and reflected by the silver candlesticks and the gold and crystal of the vases.  On the steps of the altar was a great basket of roses; and through a memorial window streamed the sunlight, casting on the tesselated pavement a royal wealth of color, blue and gold and crimson; against the dark walls marble tablets gleamed whitely.  Near one of them, a tiny shield, a man stood with his head bent and his shoulder resting against a carved oak column—­Nesbit Thorne, and the tablet bore the inscription:  “Allen Thorne, obiit Jan. 14th, 18—­, aetat 4 years.”

Pocahontas drew back, her breath coming in short gasps; the movement of the music quickened, grew stronger, fiercer, with a crash of cords.  Thorne did not move; his head was bent, his profile toward her; about his pose, his whole form, was a look of desolation.  His face was stern, its outlines sharp, its expression that of a man who had had hard measure meted out to him, and who knew it, and mutinied against the decree.  He did not see her, he was not conscious of her presence, and the knowledge that it was so, sent a pang through her heart.  A wave of pity swept over her; an impulse struggled into life, to go to him, to take his hand in hers, to press close to his side, to fill the void of his future with her love.  What held her back?  Was it pride?  Why could not she go to him?  His unconsciousness of her presence held her aloof—­made her afraid with a strange, new fear.

Footsteps neared, echoing strangely; the music had sunk to a minor cadence which seemed to beat the measure of their advance.  The eyes of the woman were filled with a strained expectancy.  Into the waiting place, framed by the central arch, came the figure of a man—­strongly built, of noble air, of familiar presence.  Eyes brave and true and faithful met hers gravely, a hand was outstretched toward her.

Pocahontas shivered, and her heart beat with heavy, muffled strokes.  The counter influences of her life were drawing to the death struggle.  Thorne turned; his eyes were upon her; he advanced slowly.

Jim came straight to where she stood and took her hands in his; his face was pale and drawn, as the face of a man who has passed through the white heat of suffering.  His hands were cold, and trembled a little as they closed on hers; he tried to speak, but his lips were dry and his voice inaudible.