did it of your own free will. What reason would you give to the world for casting her off?"
"What reason?" he asks, with a deep, steady blaze in his eyes. "She is no wife of mine, and it shall be my business to prove that she is not!"
"She loves you."
"Loves me!" he cries, with a fierce scorn in his voice. "She would have shown her love better by stabbing me to the heart! And you would send me back to her?"
"Yes, I would send you back."
"Ay!" he says below his breath, "I will go back to kill her!"
"Will you? Was Paul Vasher born to be a murderer?"
"Yes," he says doggedly, "even that!"
"No, you will not. That weak, sinful woman has no power to plunge your soul into guilt. She has ruined your life, but she can do no more. Shameful though she is, she is yours. You took her not for a day or a week, but for better for worse. You must bear the burden of the rash act you committed; and, remember, that any discredit you lay upon her will recoil upon yourself; for she is, in the eyes of the world, your wife, and the bearer of your name."
"In the sight of God she is not! Did you ever love me?” he asks bitterly. "After all, I do not think you can know what love means to wish to send me back to that woman. Do you think that if you had been cheated into marrying another man, and you came to me, I would send you back to him? I would hold you—keep you—bind you in my arms so safely that no one should wrest you from me—my love, my darling!" He covers up his face, he trembles in a strong man's agony, and still, still I can look at him and feel absolutely nothing.
"As you will not take up your burden and bear it like a man," I say—and at my words he lifts his head—"I must take it up
