He had
felt it first when Melisse turned upon him at the foot of the
mountain; and after that in the cabin, in every breath he drew, in
every look that he gave her. For him she had changed for all time. She
was no longer the little Melisse, his sister. And yet--
He was almost saying her last words aloud:
"Good night, Brother Jan!"
She had come to him that day to let him kiss her, as she had come to
him a thousand times before; but he had not kissed her in the old way.
It was a different love that his lips had given, and even now the hot
blood surged again into his face as he thought of what he had done.
His was a different idea of honor from that held by men born to the
ways of passion.
In that which had stirred his blood, thrilling him with strange joy as
he held her in his arms, he saw more than the shadow of sin--sacrilege
against a thing which was more precious to him than life. Melisse came
to him still as his sister, abiding in her glorious faith in him,
unaware of his temptation; while he, Jan Thoreau--
He thrust a hand inside his coat and clutched at the papers that Jean
de Gravois had read. Then he drew them forth, slowly, and held them
crumpled in his fingers, while for many minutes he stared straight out
into the gray gloom of the treeless plain.
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