For a long while Martin Valliant neither moved nor spoke¹, and Mellis watched him in silence. His rage had passed, and a kind of wondering horror dulled his eyes. He was afraid of his own handiwork, this death that he had brought into the world, these bloody² things at his feet. And yet they fascinated him, for there were two men struggling in Martin Valliant—the poor monk³ and the soldier.  
The monk in him, being the elder, stood shocked to the heart, and most tragically⁵ dismayed. Such a bloody deed as this seemed the end of everything, even though it had been done in generous wrath⁶. Martin’s monastic soul shrank away, horrified⁷, covering its face with its hands. He had spilled blood, he was a murderer, he had sinned against the God Who had given him life.
 
For a while the monk in him possessed⁸ his whole consciousness, but there was a man stronger and fiercer than the monk waiting to be heard. The soul of old Valliant lived more nobly in his son, old Valliant who had looked on dead men with the pity of a soldier, but who would have had no pity for such a fellow as Noble Vance.
 
“Martin—Martin Valliant!”
 
He heard her voice, at first very soft and faint, like a voice from a distance. He had not looked at her since he had struck Vance down.
 
Slowly he seemed to drag himself from staring at his own handiwork. He turned his head, and her eyes met his.
 
Once more the soul of that tragic⁴ day astonished him, for there was a strange, shining light in Mellis’s eyes. Her lips seemed to tremble; her throat showed proud and triumphant⁹. Here was no shame, no horror, but a something that gloried, an exultation¹⁰ that was near to tears.
 
He stared at her as though he had been dead and she had called him back to life.
 
Mellis stretched out her hands as though to crown him.
 
“Martin Valliant—Martin Valliant.”
 
Again the note of exultation sounded. He beheld¹¹ a new and human glory in her eyes.
 
“God forgive me.”
 
He dropped on his knees, and covered his face with his right arm.
 
The woman in her rushed instantly to comfort him.
 
“Martin—Martin Valliant, take it not to heart. God slays¹² men sometimes; it is right and good that they should be slain¹³.”
 
She bent¹⁴ over him with infinite compassion¹⁵.
 
“How can I lift this burden from you, you who have striven to love men?”
 
He dropped his arm and stared at the grass.
 
“What has happened to me? I do not understand. Yet that man there was an evil beast, and I struck him in clean wrath. What does God wish? I have lost the light in my soul.”
 
He got up and began to walk to and fro with great strides, his forehead all knotted, his mouth awry¹⁶. And Mellis watched him, keeping silent, but with a great pity in her eyes. He was like a blind man, groping his way, lost in the confusion of his own soul.
 
“Martin——”
 
He turned to her with dull anguish¹⁷ in his eyes.
 
“God will not speak to me. I hear no voice but yours. I will go and surrender myself.”
 
“To whom?”
 
“What does it matter? There is blood on my hands. Let them do with me as they please.”
 
A new light flashed in her eyes. She seemed to feel the struggle that was coming, the fight for the soul of this strong man. Either he would dash himself to ruin, or she would save him as he had saved her.
 
“Is there no other voice but mine?”
 
“None.”
 
“Perhaps God is in my voice, speaking to you, Martin Valliant.”
 
He looked at her strangely.
 
“Those men died by my hand.”
 
“Good—very good—I grant it. There’s death, lying at our feet. Let us look at i............