It stopped, and the men who had been following closed up round it.  Even then Peter did not understand.  He did not understand until he saw Stewart, limp and unconscious, lifted out of the straw and carried toward him.

Suicide may be moral cowardice; but it requires physical bravery.  And Marie was not brave.  The balcony had attracted her:  it opened possibilities of escape, of unceasing regret and repentance for Stewart, of publicity that would mean an end to the situation.  But every inch of her soul was craven at the thought.  She crept out often and looked down, and as often drew back, shuddering.  To fall down, down on to the tree tops, to be dropped from branch to branch, a broken thing, and perhaps even not yet dead—­that was the unthinkable thing, to live for a time and suffer!

Stewart was not ignorant of all that went on in her mind.  She had threatened him with the balcony, just as, earlier in the winter, it had been a window-ledge with which she had frightened him.  But there was this difference, whereas before he had drawn her back from the window and clapped her into sanity, now he let her alone.  At the end of one of their quarrels she had flung out on to the balcony, and then had watched him through the opening in the shutter.  He had lighted a cigarette!

Stewart spent every daylight hour at the hotel, or walking over the mountain roads, seldom alone with Anita, but always near her.  He left Marie sulking or sewing, as the case might be.  He returned in the evening to find her still sulking, still sewing.

But Marie did not sulk all day, or sew.  She too was out, never far from Stewart, always watching.  Many times she escaped discovery only by a miracle, as when she stooped behind an oxcart, pretending to tie her shoe, or once when they all met face to face, and although she lowered her veil Stewart must have known her instantly had he not been so intent on helping Anita over a slippery gutter.

She planned a dozen forms of revenge and found them impossible of execution.  Stewart himself was frightfully unhappy.  For the first time in his life he was really in love, with all the humility of the condition.  There were days when he would not touch Anita’s hand, when he hardly spoke, when the girl herself would have been outraged at his conduct had she not now and then caught him watching her, seen the wretchedness in his eyes.

The form of Marie’s revenge was unpremeditated, after all.  The light mountain snow was augmented by a storm; roads were ploughed through early in the morning, leaving great banks on either side.  Sleigh-bells were everywhere.  Coasting parties made the steep roads a menace to the pedestrian; every up-climbing sleigh carried behind it a string of sleds, going back to the starting-point.

Below the hotel was the Serpentine Coast, a long and dangerous course, full of high-banked curves, of sudden descents, of long straightaway dashes through the woodland.  Two miles, perhaps three, it wound its tortuous way down the mountain.  Up by the highroad to the crest again, only a mile or less.  Thus it happened that the track was always clear, except for speeding sleds.  No coasters, dragging sleds back up the slide, interfered.