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a sullen, dumb, menacing hostility. Her heart sank in the engulfing stillness; at that moment she felt the nearness of death breathing on her and on the man with her. If there had been a sudden stir of leaves, the crack of a dry branch, the faintest rustle, she would have screamed aloud. But she shook off the unworthy weakness. Such as she was, a fiddlescraping girl picked up on the very threshold of infamy, she would try to rise above herself, triumphantv and humble; and then happiness would burst on her like a torrent, flinging at her feet the man whom she loved.
Heyst stirred slightly.
"We had better be getting back, Lena, since we can't stay all night in the woods or anywhere else, for that matter. We are the slaves of this infernal surprise which has been sprung on us by—shall I say fate ?—your fate, or mine."
It was the man who had broken the silence, but it was the woman who led the way. At the very edge of the forest she stopped, concealed by a tree. He joined her cautiously.
“What is it ? What do you see, Lena ?” he whispered.
She said that it was only a thought that had come into her head. She hesitated for a moment, giving him over her shoulder a shining gleam of her grey
eyes. She wanted to know whether this trouble, this danger, this evil, whatever it was, finding them out in their retreat, was not a sort of punishment.
“Punishment ?" repeated Heyst. He could not understand what she meant. When she explained, he was still more surprised. “A sort of retribution from an angry Heaven ?” he said in wonder. “On us ? What on earth for ?"
He saw her pale face darken in the dusk. She had blushed. Her whispering flowed very fast. It was the way they lived together—that wasn't right, was it? It was a guilty life. For she had not been forced into it, driven, scared into it. No, no—she had come to him of her own free will, with her whole soul yearning unlawfully.
He was so profoundly touched that he could not speak for a moment. To conceal his trouble, he assumed his best Heystian manner.
“What? Are our visitors then messengers of morality, avengers of righteousness, agents of Providence? That's certainly an original view. How flattered they would be if they could hear you!"
“Now you are making fun of me," she said in a subdued voice which broke suddenly.
"Are you conscious of sin ?” Heyst asked gravely. She made no answer. "For I am not,” he added; "before Heaven, I am not!"
"You! You different. Woman is the tempter. You took me up from pity. I threw myself at you." "Oh, you exaggerate, you exaggerate.
It was not so bad as that,” he said playfully, keeping his voice steady with an effort.
He considered himself a dead man already, yet forced to pretend that he was alive for her sake, for her defence. He regretted that he had no Heaven to which he could recommend this fair, palpitating handful of ashes and dust-warm, living, sentient, his own and exposed helplessly to insult, outrage, degradation, and infinite misery of the body.
She had averted her face from him and was still. He suddenly seized her passive hand.
“You will have it so ?” he said. “Yes ? let us then hope for mercy together."
She shook her head without looking at him, like an abashed child.
"Remember," he went on incorrigible with his delicate raillery, "that hope is a Christian virtue, and, surely, you can't want all the mercy for yourself.”
Before their eyes the bungalow across the cleared ground stood bathed in a sinister light. An unexpected chill gust of wind made a noise in the tree-tops. She snatched her hand away and stepped
out into the open; but before she had advanced more than three yards, she stood still and pointed to the west. "Oh, look there!” she exclaimed.
Beyond the headland of Diamond Bay, lying black on a purple sea, great masses of cloud stood piled up and bathed in a mist of blood. A crimson crack like an open wound zigzagged between them, with a piece of dark red sun showing at the bottom. Heyst cast an indifferent glance at the ill-omened chaos of the sky.
"Thunderstorm making up. We shall hear it all night, but it won't visit us, probably. The clouds generally gather round the volcano.” She was not listening to him. Her eyes
reflected the sombre and violent hues of the sunset.
“That does not look much like a sign of mercy," she said slowly, as if to herself, and hurried on, followed by Heyst. Suddenly she stopped. “I don't
I would do more yet! And some day you'll forgive me. You'll have to forgive me!"
Stumbling up the steps, as if suddenly exhausted, Lena entered the room and let herself fall on the nearest chair. Before following her, Heyst took a survey of the surroundings from the veranda. It was a complete solitude. There was nothing in the aspect of this familiar scene to tell him that he and the girl were not as completely alone as they had been in the early days of their common life on this abandoned spot, with only Wang discreetly materialising from time to time and the uncomplaining memory of Morrison to keep them company.
After the cold gust of wind there was an absolute stillness of the air. The thunder-charged mass hung unbroken beyond the low, ink-black headland, darkening the twilight. By contrast, the sky at the zenith displayed pellucid clearness, the sheen of a delicate glass bubble which the merest movement of air might shatter. A little to the left, between the black masses of the headland and of the forest, the