“Alison!” he cried, “I can’t ask it of you.  I have no right—­”

“You’re not asking it,” she answered.  “It is I who am asking it.”

“But I have no future—­I may be an outcast to-morrow.  I have nothing to offer you.”  He spoke more firmly now, more commandingly.

“Don’t you see, dear, that it is just because your future as obscure that I can do this?  You never would have done it, I know,—­and I couldn’t face that.  Don’t you understand that I am demanding the great sacrifice?”

“Sacrifice!” he repeated.  His fingers turned, and closed convulsively on hers.

“Yes, sacrifice,” she said gently.  “Isn’t it the braver thing?”

Still he failed to catch her meaning.

“Braver,” she explained, with her wonderful courage, “braver if I love you, if I need you, if I cannot do without you.”

He took her in his arms, crushing her to him in his strength, in one ineffable brief moment finding her lips, inhaling the faint perfume of her smooth akin.  Her lithe figure lay passively against him, in marvellous, unbelievable surrender.

“I see what you mean,” he said, at length, “I should have been a coward.  But I could not be sure that you loved me.”

So near was her face that he could detect, even under the obscurity of the branches, a smile.

“And so I was reduced to this!  I threw my pride to the winds,” she whispered.  “But I don’t care.  I was determined, selfishly, to take happiness.”

“And to give it,” he added, bending down to her.  The supreme quality of its essence was still to be doubted, a bright star-dust which dazzled him, to evaporate before his waking eyes.  And, try as he would, he could not realize to the full depth the boy of contact with a being whom, by discipline, he had trained his mind to look upon as the unattainable.  They had spoken of the future, yet in these moments any consideration of it was blotted out. . .  It was only by degrees that he collected himself sufficiently to be able to return to it. . .  Alison took up the thread.

“Surely,” she said, “sacrifice is useless unless it means something, unless it be a realization.  It must be discriminating.  And we should both of us have remained incomplete if we had not taken—­this.  You would always, I think, have been the one man for me,—­but we should have lost touch.”  He felt her tremble.  “And I needed you.  I have needed you all my life—­one in whom h might have absolute faith.  That is my faith, of which I could not tell you awhile ago.  Is it—­sacrilegious?”

She looked up at him.  He shook his head, thinking of his own.  It seemed the very distillation of the divine.  “All my life,” she went on, “I have been waiting for the one who would risk everything.  Oh, if you had faltered the least little bit, I don’t know what I should have done.  That would have destroyed what was left of me, put out, I think, the flickering fire that remained, instead of fanning it into flame.  You cannot know how I watched you, how I prayed!  I think it was prayer—­I am sure it was.  And it was because you did not falter, because you risked all, that you gained me.  You have gained only what you yourself made, more than I ever was, more than I ever expected to be.”