At sight of him, her arm, lifted to the sketch, fell; the crayon slipped from her nerveless fingers, and a glow rich as the heart of some red June rose stained her cheeks.

As he stepped toward her, she leaned against the wall, and swiftly drew the baby’s cradle between them.  He understood, and for a moment recoiled.

“You barricade yourself as though I were some loathsome monster!  Are you afraid of me?”

“What is there left to fear?  Have you spared any exertion to accomplish that which you believe would overwhelm me with sorrow?”

“You cannot forgive my rejection of the overtures for a compromise wrung from you by extremity of dread, when I started to Dakota?”

“That rejection freed me from a self-imposed, galling promise; and hence I forgive all, because of the failure of your journey.”

“Suppose I have not failed?”

She caught her breath, and the color in her cheeks flickered.

“Had you succeeded, I should not have been allowed so long the comparative mercy of suspense.”

“Am I so wantonly cruel, think you, that I gloat over your sufferings as a Modoc at sight of the string of scalps dangling at his pony’s neck?”

“When the spirit of revenge is unleashed, Tiberius becomes a law unto himself.”

He leaned forward, and his voice was freighted with tenderness that he made no attempt to disguise.

“Once after that long swoon in the court-room, when I held your hand, you looked at me without shrinking, and called me Tiberius.  Again, when for hours I sat beside your cot, watching the crisis of your first terrible illness, you opened your eyes and held out your hand, saying:  ‘Have you come for me, Tiberius?’ Why have you told me you were at the mercy of Tiberius?”

Hitherto she had avoided looking at him, and kept her gaze upon the sleeping child, but warned by the tone that made her heart throb, she bravely lifted her eyes.

“When next you write to your betrothed, ask her to go to the Museo Chiaramonti while in Rome, and standing before the crowned Tiberius, she will fancy her future husband welcomes her.  Your wife will need no better portrait of you than a copy of that head.”

Into his eyes leaped the peculiar glow that can be likened unto nothing but the clear violet flame dancing over a bed of burning anthracite coal, and into his voice an exultant ring: 

“Meantime, like my inexorable prototype, ’I hold a wolf by the ears’.  Shall I tell you my mission here?”

“As it appears I am indeed always at the mercy of Tiberius, your courtesy savors of sarcasm.”

“Oh, my stately white rose!  My Rosa Alba, I will see to it, that no polluting hand lays a grasp on you.  My errand should entitle me to a more cordial reception, for I bring you good news.  Will you lay your hand in mine just once, while I tell you?”

He extended his open palm, but she shook her head and smiled sadly.