The misery and the tyranny and the unrequited
love were all behind her, the disillusion and the loss and the undeserved
insult to her womanhood--all, all were sunk away into the unredeemable
past. Here, in Egypt, where she had first felt the stir of life's passion
and pain and penalty, here, now, she lost herself in a beautiful, buoyant
dream. 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.
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