due; they would only fittingly have avenged all those who died by shot and steel through me."
"What is your life, then?"
His voice sank very low, his face was very colourless, as he leaned over her. Believe even her own witness against her he did not, would not; but he knew that some dark thread ran through her life's golden web—he knew that some deadly remorse underlay the brilliancy of her gifts and of her sway, and beyond these he knew nothing of it, no more than he knew of the track, and the spring, and the destiny of the unseen waters that wound their way beneath the herbage and the lilies at his feet, whether downward to nethermost depths of gloom, or outward to the fair freedom of the sea, none had told, or ever would tell.
"What is it?" sbe repeated, dreamily. "Well, beyond all, it is a long regret."
"Many regret who are but the prey of others."
"Perhaps; but my regret is—remorse."
"Well, may not even that oftentimes be noble?"
Sbe gave a gesture of dissent, while the smile that had in it more sadness than tears, though it had also her old careless satire in it, passed a moment over her face.
"You bade me once not ask you to turn sophist
