"Il n'y a que l'amour et la mort."

For a few minutes after he had gone, Arithelli stood motionless, still with her hands pressed tightly over her eyes, trying to command her brain to work clearly. Her will and her limbs seemed paralysed. She could only wait for Vardri's approach. Once she prayed an inarticulate wordless prayer, that inspiration might be sent her to find a way out of this impasse in which there seemed neither light nor opening.

Time was passing, and every moment was bringing her nearer the most appalling destiny that could ever be meted out to any woman. If she did Sobrenski's bidding she would be not only a murderess, but the murderess of the being she loved most in the world. Vardri, who was so different from all the other men; Vardri, who could never bear anything to be hurt, or even to be made uncomfortable. She knew that it was perfectly useless for both of them to attempt to escape. Someone was most likely posted at the window of the loft, they would get no distance on foot without being overtaken, and if she attempted to lead out any of the horses or mules, the noise would probably attract attention.

Her hands fell to her side, and her head went up as she listened intently. So he was coming, after all. In that undisturbed space and clear dry air, sound travelled quickly, and she could hear the approaching hoof-beats while he was still some way off. With the knowledge of his approach the blood flowed again warmly in her veins and courage and decision came back to her. Her senses, unnaturally acute, told her that Vardri had now dismounted and was leading his horse. She could distinguish his footsteps, and then the monotonous regular footfalls of his mount. She ran out into the patch of moonlight, casting a hurried backward glance at the side of the hut. Thank God! the window was on the other side!

Vardri was coming slowly towards her, his horse's bridle over his arm. Before she covered the distance between them she made a gesture that enjoined silence and stopped his greeting. "Don't bring your horse in," she whispered. "Tie him up out of the way over there, a good way off the hut. I'll explain presently."

In another moment Vardri was beside her in the hut and had her in his arms.

"What is it, mon petit? There must be something wrong. Has
Sobrenski—?"

"No, no, he has done nothing. It's just that I don't want you to be up here too long to-night. I want you to do something for me. Will you, Vardri?"

"Do you think you'll need to ask me twice to do anything for you, dear?"

He stood with his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes gazing down at her hungrily. "Did you think I was never coming? I stayed behind on purpose. I felt that Sobrenski intended to prevent our talking together." Arithelli snatched eagerly at his words. They had given her the clue she wanted.

"Yes, that's it. It's dangerous for me if we are seen often together. I've done something so mad and foolish, Vardri, you must help me to put it right,—you can. Those letters you have written me saying all sorts of things against the Cause,—I left a piece of one about somewhere,—I don't know where,—and Sobrenski found it. He has just told me that in about half an hour's time before all the rest of them leave, he is going to send on one of the men in advance. He will get down to the town before us, go to my rooms and yours and collect all the letters that have passed between us; and use them, as then he will have what he has always wanted,—the proofs that we are what he would call traitors. And when he has these proofs, neither of us will be safe for an instant. It will mean death to both of us sooner or later. But even Sobrenski can't murder us without sufficient evidence. He will be obliged to make some formal parade of justice to put it all before the rest of the society. If he doesn't get our letters he will not have sufficient evidence."

"But if we go away together to-night, as we intended? We've got a start. We can take the best horses. That is the best plan."

Arithelli shook her head. "Listen to me, dear, and believe in a woman's wisdom for once. If we go to-night and together, we are bound to be recaptured before we are out of Barcelona. By doing what I suggest we avoid suspicion, we give ourselves breathing-space, time to arrange a disguise, to think of all sorts of things that we have overlooked. We have everything in our favour to-night, Sobrenski does not know you are here yet. If you go soon you will get away without his having seen you at all. Here is the key of my room. Go there first, and you will find all your own letters in a wooden box in my big trunk. That isn't locked. Open it and burn them all. Then go on to your own room, do the same with yours and stay there. If they raid my room, they will find nothing suspicious. You could pretend you were ill, and that's the only reason you haven't come tonight, and I am here doing my work as usual. Nothing could be less suspicious. Then when they are off their guard we can escape."

The minutes were flying. Death thrusting his lean face before the rosy face of Love. Sobrenski's phrase sounded in her ears like the tolling of a bell. "You have an hour free to do your work." An hour, only an hour! How long had they been there already? Time and all else alike seemed blurred. All her will must be concentrated upon one thing—to make Vardri leave her as quickly as possible. Yet she dare not show a sign of haste or emotion lest he should suspect something amiss and refuse to go.

"Dear, it is a wonderful plan this, of yours," Vardri was saying. "But how can I leave you here alone with these devils? It makes me cold to think of it."

"You'll leave me because I shall be safer alone. You must see that, mon ami." She clung to him, putting up her face towards his. Every art of womanhood must be used to weave a spell to send him from her and to save him. "Will you not do as I ask you?"

"I'll do anything in the world for you," the boy broke out eagerly;
"I'd have my hand cut off to save you a minute's pain."

"I know, mon ami. And this is such a little thing, and so much depends upon its being done quickly."

What was that? A step on the ladder? She could not control a violent start. No, it was only a creaking rung, a stamp from one of the mules.

"But you haven't broken your promise to me. You swear to come away with me soon?"

"To-morrow if you will. Once the letters are burnt we are almost safe.
Only one day more. It doesn't make any difference."

"It does to me, mon petit. Every moment, every hour without you is time wasted."

"But you'll go, dear, before Sobrenski sees us together?"

"My sweet, if it is for your good, of course I will go. You're right about the letters; I ought to have known it wasn't safe to keep them. As you say, they've got no circumstantial evidence if those are destroyed, and it only means a few more hours' delay in our getting off. I'll go, darling. I'll get down the hills in no time. It's the best horse of the lot, that one outside. But before I go give me yourself for a few minutes."

Arithelli let him lead her unresisting towards the corner of the hut, and lay her gently back upon a truss of hay that he had covered with a cloak. She had not the strength to deny him their last few minutes together. Every fibre in her own nature, the lover, the mother, the child, were all crying out for him. How gentle he had been, how he had always cared for her. No one had ever touched her like this before, spoken to her in this caressing voice. Emile had been kind in his way, but he had been always rough. Her own emotions had always lain buried deeply, and now they had been called to life she longed for the natural expression of her love through the medium of physical things, by word and touch.

"Now for my reward," Vardri said. "I want to take your hair down."

Arithelli bent her head towards him without speaking and he drew the pins, and undid the braid with deft fingers, spreading it out till it covered her as with a veil.

"If only I could paint you! How beautiful you are to-night, but how still and cold! FatalitÉ, tell me you love me a little, mon coeur!"

She put her arms round his neck, laying her cheek against his. "Mon ami, I love you!"

He held her in his arms as one holds a child, rocking her to and fro. "VoilÀ chÉrie!" he whispered. "After to-morrow I shall have you always, I shall never let you go again. My dream is coming true."

Arithelli listened with dry eyes and an aching heart. She was past crying, and her brain felt curiously reasonable and alert. She could not send him from her at once, yet with every passing second Death drew stealthily nearer and nearer. Time swept on relentless and inflexible.

"Perhaps you will be disappointed in me one of these days, find me depressing and full of moods. I've always been so lonely, you know, till I met you. Je suis une Âme detachÉe."

"Never again while I'm alive! I think of you and with you. When you are happy I know it, and when you are miserable I know it too. FatalitÉ! FatalitÉ! believe that I don't want anything in return. I'll wait on you, work for you, lie, starve, steal, do anything. I only want to know you're there, to have the right to serve you, to feel you don't hate me. I couldn't go on living it I lost you. Since the first day I saw you at the Hippodrome you've haunted me. I led Don Juan down to the entrance to the ring. You don't remember? How should you? I've never forgotten! You smiled and thanked me. You looked so strange beside Estelle and those other women."

He was kneeling beside her, his lips pressed against the hollow of her arm, from which the loose red sleeve had slipped back to above the elbow. Under his passionate words Arithelli sat like a being entranced, unseeing, unhearing. The inscrutable eyes set in the rigid face gave her the likeness to some carven thing.

"FatalitÉ! FatalitÉ!"

The sound of his voice came to her as from a distance. She roused herself, and tried to smile. "Mon ami, I'm a little tired to-night, a little nervous; I was thinking about the letters! I shall feel so much safer when they're burnt."

"I'll go at once—just one moment. Arithelli, you do believe that I love you, and that I want nothing? See, I'll not even touch your hand if it doesn't please you."

The soft hand was laid gently on his. "But if it does please me, mon camarade—"

"Dieu! How sweet you are! But don't call me 'Camarade,' mon petit. Those wolves above call each other that!"

"I won't, if you hate it. Yes, that's really love to give all and take nothing." Arithelli spoke dreamily. "Emile made me sing to him before he went away; you remember 'L'Adieu' of Schubert? He loved it.

"La mort est une amie,
Qui rend la libertÉ."

"C'est bien vrai ca! I used to sing it without thinking at one time.
How alike all those songs are. Always Death;—Death and Liberty!"

"Don't talk of those things, dear. It's going to be Life for both of us—after to-morrow."

"I was thinking of poor Emile."

"He was always fond of you. He'll be glad when he hears you're married and safe."

"Yes, he'll be glad. Don't talk any more for a minute, dear, then just say au revoir to me and go as quickly as you can. I want to be quiet. It's good to be loved. How gentle you are! Emile was always so rough when he touched me."

Vardri hung over her, caressing her with infinite tenderness. Of all men in the world he was surely the happiest to have known this sweet and womanly Arithelli, the Arithelli that no one else had ever seen. He kissed the heavy, closed lids and stroked back the hair from her forehead.

A faint intoxicating odour of jasmine hovered about her, for she was
Eastern in her love of perfumes. The stifling, dirty hut became a
Paradise while she lay thus in his arms.

Once again they kissed and clung together. Though Arithelli's lips burnt, they scorched with the fires of despair rather than with those of passion.

In silence Vardri helped her to her feet, and they walked together to the door.

"You'll come to me to-morrow," Arithelli said.

"To-morrow we shall be safe. We'll be out of this hell altogether in another day or two, À la bonne heure! You're not afraid, FatalitÉ?"

"I shan't be—when the letters are safe. Take care of yourself, mon ami, et À bientot!"

"Mon Dieu! what pluck you have! How I love you for it! Go back and rest, dear, till those brutes come down. Give me your hand again, FatalitÉ, bien aimÉe! gardez-vous, mais gardez-vous!"

She answered him steadily. "À demain. Adieu, mon ami. Ride as quickly as you can, but lead your horse for the first few minutes."