After some time, the scuffle grew more and more distant, until nothing could be heard. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. After that consolations fled. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Let us be gone. Leastways, not on your own.
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