Julian Gerard paced impatiently the deck of the steamer on which, for eight miserable days, he had existed without sight of a newspaper. It was early dawn; the outlines of the Goddess of Liberty loomed uncertainly through a thick fog. He remembered how, when he had last seen his native shores, he had been distraught with bitter anger against the woman to whom his heart now turned with an eager longing, a passionate remorse.

For the hundredth time his mind analyzed and condemned that strange whim, the expression of a passing but very real phase of his disappointment and disillusion, which had led him to cut himself off from the world he had left behind. He had no wish to hear from home, to be reminded of home ties, or of the woman whom he had resolved to forget. Beneath his self-repressed exterior there was a strain of adventure in his blood, which made him turn, in a crisis like this, to the primitive resources of uncivilized life.

He had left home with no definite plans; but in London he met a friend, who was about to start for his farm in South Africa. Gerard at once decided to accompany him. South Africa was as good a place as any other, when all one desired was solitude and hardship, and to get away from one's self, and the unsatisfactory tone of the world.

The farm was deep in the interior of the country, many miles distant from railroad or telegraph station. For months the two men saw no one but the natives; they had no connection with the outside world. Gerard rode and hunted and studied, and took notes on the condition of the country. It was not a bad life on the whole, with a certain charm for a man satiated with all that wealth can give. He might even have enjoyed it, if he could have forgotten what had driven him to it, or erased from his memory the one face which haunted him.

The worst of it was, that she always seemed to be unhappy; he always saw her as he had left her, white and sad, with pathetic eyes. The thought of her which he had carried away that night seemed to have entirely effaced his earlier impressions of her, as she had first flashed upon him in the vivid radiance of her fresh beauty, as he had seen her often in a ball-room, a being meant only for smiles. He had never pictured her then as suffering; but now, he could not think of her in any other way.

One evening, as he and his friend sat together smoking, he found himself impelled, as it were, in spite of himself, to tell his story. The doubts, the misgivings which tortured him had grown too strong; it was a relief to put them into words. He spoke low and bitterly, in hurried phrases that were evidently the expression of his constant thoughts; not excusing the conduct of the woman who had deceived him, dwelling upon it rather with some harshness, for the very wish perhaps which he was conscious of to do the reverse. The other man, as he spoke, scanned his face keenly. At the end he made only one comment. "And yet she loved you?"

Gerard stared at him for a moment, the color flushing into his dark cheek. And then his face softened. Yes, it was not his money and position—he could at least do her that justice. "I believe she did," he said at last in a low voice.

"Then, for Heaven's sake," the other man flashed out, "what more do you want? Why, good Lord, if a woman loved me!"—and here he broke off and sat in silence, staring fixedly into the fire.

Gerard paced the floor that night, and his friend in the next room smiled grimly to hear him. The same smile flickered across his impassive features when Gerard, the next morning, announced his departure. His reasons were plausible; he wished to go about the country and study for himself the political situation of which he had hitherto seen little or nothing. His host, after that first involuntary smile, heard him through unmoved and expressed his approval. He escorted him to the nearest town, wrung his hand at parting, and went back, with a grimmer look than ever, to his own solitude.

Gerard had no plans; he was conscious of only one wish—to be where he could have news of home. At Cape Town he met the detective, who had followed him, led astray by various false clues, till he had at last found the right track. An hour later the two men started for New York. And now at last the wretched journey was over, and Gerard paced the deck of the ship and wondered miserably what new developments might have occurred.

There was a sensation in the court-room when he appeared. There had been rumors for days that the trial was being delayed for the arrival of an important witness, but it had hardly been expected that this would prove to be Elizabeth's missing lover, who had disappeared from view, as the prosecution had asserted, to avoid testifying against her. At least that reason for his absence could not be true, since it was Mr. Fenton who was bringing him in, with an evident air of triumph. Gerard himself had a worn and haggard look, which showed even through the sun-burn which had darkened his face. He had grown very thin, and there were white threads in his hair which were not visible a year before; his features were set in lines of absolute, impassive rigidity. He glanced neither to the right nor left, but sat down at once in the ranks of witnesses.

There was a short pause of breathless expectancy, and then the prisoner was brought in. Her aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp were with her as usual, and behind followed the police officer—a little in the background, and with the air he considerately wore of effacing himself as much as possible. Those who were near Gerard saw him wince and flush painfully. He had been prepared for this, but the reality shocked him, almost beyond his powers of self-control. How changed she was! Paler even than he remembered her, and thin and worn till, but for her eyes and hair, he might scarcely have known her. It gave him a shock, too, somehow to see her all in black; he had always pictured her, illogically, in white as she had been that last evening.... For a moment she hardly seemed the same woman he had thought of, dreamed of, all these months. A rush of remorseful tenderness swept over him, all the greater because she was so changed. He would have liked to go to her before them all, and proclaim to the whole world his love and faith. But what he actually did was to turn his eyes away, to spare her.

She knew that he was there. She had read the news in the trembling joy depicted on her aunts' faces, before Eleanor Van Antwerp had whispered: "Darling, prepare yourself! He has come—he has come to save you." It hardly seemed a surprise, now that it had happened; she had always known in her heart that he would come. But she was not glad, she did not wish to be saved—by him. She still felt as she had felt from the first, that she would rather die than sit in her place of humiliation and see the pity in his eyes.... Ah, thank Heaven, he had turned them away; for him, no doubt, as for her it was a painful moment. He felt sorry for her, of course—a woman whom he had loved once, who was being punished more than she deserved. But there was an invincible pride in her nature which rebelled against his pity, which would have preferred condemnation, contempt. Yet, after all, pity was all that she deserved; she had never been worthy of his love. Let her take what poor remnant of it was left and be thankful. Yet deep down in her heart, there was, in spite of herself, a feeling of joy that the world would know that he had not forsaken her.

There was little time for these conflicting thoughts to oppose each other in Elizabeth's weary brain. Gerard was called to the stand, and then she could do nothing but listen—and listen gratefully—while in quiet, even tones, speaking very simply and to the point, he corroborated all that she herself had testified. Yes, he remembered perfectly the morning of the twenty-third of December. He had spent it with Miss Van Vorst at the Metropolitan Museum. They had been at the Museum for several hours, and he had left her at her home at half-past one. Had he known then of her marriage to Halleck? No, not then, but soon afterwards. She had told him on New Year's Eve. No, he had not suspected it, or drawn out the avowal in any way. It had been entirely voluntary. Naturally their engagement had been at an end, and he had gone abroad immediately. That was his evidence. It materially strengthened the defence on two points; first, that the prisoner had not bought either the flask or the poison; second, that she had not expected Paul Halleck's death.

The District Attorney, realizing this, tried to undermine its credibility. It was not an easy thing with a man of Gerard's character and high standing; but after all, a man in love is hardly an accountable being. The District Attorney dwelt sarcastically on the improbability of his having remained in ignorance all this time of the impending trial, and insinuated that he must have had serious objections to returning, which had been finally overcome by the efforts of the defense. He asked his questions in a blustering way, which fell just short of insolence. Gerard answered them quietly, apparently unmoved. Yes, he admitted, it seemed improbable that he should not have heard of the trial, but it was nevertheless absolutely true. He had spent the greater part of his absence on a farm in South Africa; he had led a rough, solitary life, read no newspapers, received no letters. He had first heard that his evidence was needed at Cape town, five weeks before. No, he had not received a letter from the defendant, urging him to come to her rescue, nor did he believe that any such letter had been sent. It would have been quite unnecessary.

"Your disinterested chivalry, in other words," sneered the District Attorney, "was sufficient, without such an appeal?"

"It is not a question of chivalry," said Gerard, coolly, "it is a question of telling the truth."

"Which of course you are anxious to do."

"Of course."

His imperturbability seemed proof, against all the offensiveness of the other's manner. The District Attorney, shifting his ground, questioned him as to the broken engagement; and here he was rejoiced to find his man more vulnerable. A tremor would cross Gerard's face, he changed color more than once. But still his answers were given quietly, in low, measured tones. Yes, it was true that Miss Van Vorst had kept him in ignorance of her marriage; but he did not think that her reasons for her silence need be discussed, since they were quite irrelevant.

"And you mean to assure us," said the District Attorney, incredulously, "that she told you at last of her own accord, without the slightest necessity?"

"Most certainly."

"And what she told you then was the only information you received of her marriage?"

"Yes."

"It was the only reason for breaking the engagement?"

"Yes."

"And now that that reason no longer exists," said the District Attorney, "the engagement, I suppose, is likely to be renewed?"

The question was so unexpected that Mr. Fenton was not ready with an objection, and Gerard spoke before he could interpose.

"I don't think that I am bound to answer questions as to what may or may not occur in the future."

Mr. Fenton hastily agreed with him, and he was sustained by the judge. But the District Attorney defended his line of inquiry.

"Your Honor, it is important for me to show how far this witness is biassed in favor of the defendant. He has wished to marry her once, it is possible, apparently, that he may be in the same position again. You won't deny," he went on, turning to Gerard, "—that there is such a possibility?"

Gerard hesitated for perhaps a second. Then he looked the lawyer squarely, defiantly in the face. He was very pale, but there was an angry light in his eyes; his voice rang out clearly. "I deny nothing," he said, "except that my feelings toward Miss Van Vorst have influenced the truth of anything I said."

Mr. Fenton again formally entered his objection, and after some wrangling, question and answer were stricken from the record. Still, the jury had heard them and could form their own conclusions. Mr. Fenton was not dissatisfied; there was a romantic element in the situation which must, he thought, appeal irresistibly to the popular imagination. And indeed, as Gerard left the stand, the general sympathy was on his side, even among those who secretly thought that he had stretched a point here and there, on behalf of the woman he loved. It was possible that his evidence was false; but the people who thought thus, if they were men, did not blame him; if they were women, they admired him rather the more.

The eyes of the court-room were fixed upon him as he crossed over to where Elizabeth sat and shook hands with her quietly, as if they had parted yesterday. And then he seated himself near her, in the little circle of her supporters. Eleanor Van Antwerp put out her hand to him, her dark eyes shining through a mist of tears.

"Julian, you don't know how happy I am to have you back."

He shuddered, "Don't speak of it, Eleanor. I can never forgive myself for having gone."

Elizabeth heard the words, but her eyes were resolutely bent on the ground, and she refused to take any of the comfort that his presence might have imparted. It was natural that he should feel remorseful, eager to show to the world as much as possible that he had not forsaken her, that he thoroughly believed in her innocence. But for anything more, such a possibility as the District Attorney had suggested, which he did not deny, could not, of course, very well deny under the circumstances?... Ah, no, there could be no question any more of love between them. Her own pride would not permit it, even if what she called his pity could influence his judgment to that extent. And then, with a start, she remembered that she was still on trial for her life, and that all thoughts of love and marriage were incongruous, almost grotesque. The case for the defense was closed, the District Attorney was to make his final address the next day. The thing would soon be decided, one way or the other.

The next morning, a box of flowers was brought to her; the white roses which he had always sent her. For a moment she hesitated, touched them lovingly, and then at last she took one of them and fastened it in her belt. "It may bring luck," she murmured, as if to excuse her action, and then she bent her head, and pressed her lips to its fragrant petals.

A little later, when she entered the court-room, the eyes of all were fixed on the flower. It was the first touch of color that had ever relieved her black gown.

"You see," one woman whispered, "it's the sign of innocence."

Her companion, less easily moved, replied cautiously: "Perhaps."