She was riding out to meet the one man of all men, hero, crusader, rescuer--ah, that dreadful night in the Palace, and Foorgat's face! But he was coming, who had made her live, to whom she had called, to whom her soul had spoken in its grief and misery.

Had she ever done aught to shame the best that was in herself--and had she not been sorely tempted?
Had she not striven to love Eglington even when the worst was come, not alone at her own soul's command, but because she knew that this man would have it so?
Broken by her own sorrow, she had left England, Eglington--all, to keep her pledge to help him in his hour of need, to try and save him to the world, if that might be.

So she had come to Nahoum, who was binding him down on the bed of torture and of death.

And yet, alas! not herself had conquered Nahoum, but David, as Nahoum had said.

She herself had not done this one thing which would have compensated for all that she had suffered.