“That is nothing!” said Glenfernie.  “Continue—­” But the seconds, coming between them, would not have it so.  It was understood that their principals had met before, and upon the same count.  Blood had been drawn.  It was France—­and mere ugly tooth-and-claw business not in favor.  Blood had flowed—­now part!

“‘Must’ drives then to-day,” said Alexander.  “But it is December still, Ian Rullock!”

“Turn the world so, if you will, Glenfernie!” answered the other.  “And yet there is June somewhere!”

They left the field.  Alexander, going home in a hired coach with Deschamps, sat in silence, looking out of the window.  His arm was bandaged and held in a sling.

“They breed determined foes in Scotland,” said Deschamps.

“That Scotland is in me,” Glenfernie answered.  “That Scotland and that December.”

Three days later he wandered alone in Paris, came at last to old stone steps leading down to the river, in an unpopulous quarter.  A few boats lay fastened to piles, but the landing-place hung deserted in the winter sunlight.  There lacked not a week of Christmas.  But the season had been mild.  To-day was not cold, and stiller than still.  Glenfernie, his cloak about him, sat upon the river steps and watched the stream.  It went by, and still it stood there before him.  It came from afar, and it went to afar, and still it shone where his hand might touch it.  It turned like a wheel, from the gulf to the height and around again.  He followed its round—­ocean and climbing vapor, cloud, rain, and far mountain springs, descent and the mother sea.  The mind, expanding, ceased to examine radius by radius, but held the whole wheel.  Alexander sat in inner quiet, forgetting December.

Turning from that contemplation, he yet remained still, looking now at the sunshine on the steps....  There seemed to reach him, within and from within, rays of color and fragrance, the soul of spice pinks, marigolds, and pansies....  Then, within and from within, Elspeth was with him.

Dead!  She was not dead....  Of all idle words—!

It was not as a shade—­it was not as a memory, or not as the poor things that were called memory!  But she came in the authority and integrity of herself, that was also, most dearly, most marvelously, himself as well—­permeative, penetrative, real, a subtle breath named Elspeth!  So subtle, so wide and deep, elastic, universal, with no horizons that he could see....  To and fro played the tides of knowledge.

Elspeth all along—­sunshines and shadows—­Elspeth a wide, living life—­not crushed into the two moments upon which he had brooded—­not the momentary Elspeth who had walked the glen with him, not the momentary Elspeth lifted from the Kelpie’s Pool, borne in his arms, cold, rigid, drowned, a long, long way!  But Elspeth, integral, vibrant, living—­Elspeth of centillions of moments—­Elspeth a beautiful power moving strongly in abundant space....