would save Sylvia the horrible shock of knowing that her lover had killed her brother; it would save her all that piercing of the iron into her soul that must inevitably be suffered by her if she knew the truth.  And who could tell what effect the knowledge of the truth would have on her?  Michael felt that it was at the least possible that she could never bear to see him again, still less sleep in the arms of the one who had killed her brother.  That knowledge, even if she could put it out of mind in pity and sorrow for Michael, would surely return and return again, and tear her from him sobbing and trembling.  There was all to risk in telling her the truth; sorrow and bitterness for her and for him separation and a lifelong regret were piled up in the balance against the unknown weight of her love.  Indeed, there was love on both sides of that balance.  Who could tell how the gold weighed against the gold?

Yet, after those drowsy, pain-streaked nights, when the sober light of dawn crept in at the windows, then, morning after morning, Michael knew that the inward compulsion was in no way weakened by all the reasons that he had urged.  It remained ruthless and tender, a still small voice that was heard after the whirlwind and the fire.  For the very reason why he longed to spare Sylvia this knowledge, namely, that they loved each other, was precisely the reason why he could not spare her.  Yet it seemed so wanton, so useless, so unreasonable to tell her, so laden with a risk both for him and her that no standard could measure.  But he no more contemplated—­except in vain imagination—­making up some ingenious story of this kind which would account for his knowledge of Hermann’s death than he contemplated keeping silence altogether.  It was not possible for him not to tell her everything, though, when he pictured himself doing so, he found himself faced by what seemed an inevitable impossibility.  Though he did not see how his lips could frame the words, he knew they had to.  Yet he could not but remember how mere reports in the paper, stories of German cruelty and what not, had overclouded the serenity of their love.  What would happen when this news, no report or hearsay, came to her?

He had not heard her foot on the stairs, nor did she wait for his servant to announce her; but, a little before her appointed time, she burst in upon him midway between smiles and tears, all tenderness.

“Michael, my dear, my dear,” she cried, “what a morning for me!  For the first time to-day when I woke, I forgot about the war.  And your poor arm?  How goes it?  Oh, I will take care, but I must and will have you in my arms.”

He had risen to greet her, and softly and gently she put her arms round his neck, drawing his head to her.

“Oh, my Michael!” she whispered.  “You’ve come back to me.  Lieber Gott, how I have longed for you!”

“Lieber Gott!” When last had he heard those words?  He had to tell her.  He would tell her in a minute or two.  Perhaps she would never hold him like that again.  He could not part with her at the very moment he had got her.