Once again the cavalcade was in motion, and winding its way by St. Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it.
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