THE gloomy gate of life is not ever the least auspicious; from beneath its arch the warrior beholds a braver dawn gleam on the pinnacles of a sublimer city. Fate is no basilisk when stared betwixt the brows. Courage kindles at the clarion cry of death.

For the first season of his life Gabriel grew single and strong of purpose. Affectations, dreams fell away like the last rotting leaves from a tree in spring. He was the man at last, courageous, uncringing, standing alone for simple truth and honor. Primitive tones inspired him, the deep, rich instincts of the heart. He had lived an indolent and facile visionary. Now there was need of manhood and the sword.

He sallied early for Gabingly that morning, riding his favorite black mare, briskly breasting the hills. The sky was clear and vigorous; the green slopes stood out against the azure and the sunny bosoms of the clouds. Honeysuckle clambered in the hedgerows. A light breeze laughed through the rising corn, but could not stir the weightier passion of the woods.

Avoiding Saltire by the cross-roads, and casting a long, meditative stare at the hall, ruddy amid its trees, Gabriel took a grass-grown track that wound westward over the hills. Dense thickets of pines and larches hedged this antique roadway with primeval gloom. The sunlight filtered through in showers, staining the vivid grass with gold. At Beacon Point the man drew rein, turned the mare that he might gaze over towards the sea. A cataract of foliage thundered at his feet. Far to the east Cambron Head towered purple over a shimmering sea. Beneath him the great valley with its woods and pastures stretched solemn and silent in the sun. Yonder the red roofs of Saltire lay like rusty shields amid the green. Farther still the Mallan streaked the lowlands. Even in the distance he could mark the blue hills above Rilchester, with their mist of tufted trees.

Gabriel held on again with brow furrowed and eyes at gaze. The quest was no idle venture, the issue no gay joust of sentiments. He rode to recover his own conscience and the peace of the woman whom he loved. Even as he brooded the Georgian shadows of Gabingly rose up amid the pines, looming to his tragic idealism like the sullen walls of some perilous hold. Therein sat this Brunhilde, this Icelandic woman of the cold, proud face, strong beyond the strength of men, beautiful, yet iron of soul. He wondered what would chance between them that morning, whether he would have speech with her or no.

The park gates stood open prosaicly enough, barriers of iron swinging upon pillars of brick, under the patronage of half a score of gigantic elms. The gravel drive wound primly through the home park with its austere trees standing in solemn isolation, like proud Pharisees drawing the blue borders of their robes from chance defilement. There were a few deer couched or grazing amid the green lagoons of bracken. As for the castle, its leaden eyes seemed to stare obtusely at creation; it was a purely plutocratic edifice, a bovine building, dull and blank of face.

Gabriel dismounted on the gravel semilune before the castle, and buckled his mare’s bridle to a horse-post set beside an old stone mounting-block. His hand was on the iron bell-pull when Blanche Gusset, in sporting attire, appeared in the porch. The meeting was mutually unexpected. The girl in the check skirt colored even more healthily than usual, and her fat fingers tightened on the riding-switch she carried in her hand. The terrier that followed her sniffed tentatively at the man’s leggings.

“You—here!”

Gabriel went to the core of the problem with the composure of a man utterly in earnest.

“I have ridden to see Ophelia.”

“So I observe.”

The pair eyed each other for a moment with the concentrated alertness of wrestlers watching for a “catch.” Blanche had speedily recovered from her temporary embarrassment. Nervousness did not bulk largely amid her virtues; nor was she a person who boasted a delicate tact in her methods of dealing with friends. It was she who went in boldly and opened the tussle.

“Gabriel Strong,” she said, squaring her shoulders and looking him fairly in the face, “I never thought you would turn out a blackguard.”

The man winced but kept his temper.

“You have made up your mind somewhat hastily,” he said to her.

“By Jove! yes, we have that,” she retorted. “The whole tale has come out. Upon my soul, Gabriel, I never thought you would turn out such a cur.”

There was a species of hearty frankness even in her recriminations, a bluff and ruddy brevity that smacked of stall and stubble.

“May I ask you to tell my wife that I am here,” was the man’s reply.

“drop that polite bluff, then,” said the girl.

“You will not gainsay me the justice of being suffered to proclaim the truth.”

Blanche Gusset twisted her broad red mouth into a puckered expression of incredulity.

“Some one has poisoned the porridge,” she remarked, “or half the county’s a liar. Pity the governor’s out; he would have had something to say on the matter,” and she smote her leg with her switch.

The man’s courage flashed out pathetically and appealed her pity.

“For God’s sake listen to reason,” he said; “what Ophelia has been told I cannot imagine. I can swear the whole is a wicked myth. You were a good friend to me once; let me see Ophelia now. I swear I have nothing to say that can hurt her heart.”

The girl in the check skirt scrutinized him with an air of pity and partial scorn. Her creed was more a man’s, florid and unimaginative. Life did not revolve for her, but hung, a mere sphere of prejudice, displaying one face alone to her uncompromising vision. After a moment’s thought she turned on her heel and offered to serve as herald in the parley.

“I will turn in and see,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Keep to the doorstep. You do not cross our threshold unless Phyl gives the w............