The Bars of Iron

by Ethel M. Dell

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE RELEASE OF THE PRISONER

  How long was it since the fight round the chateau? Piers had no idea. Thedamp chill of the autumn night was upon him and he was cold to the bone.

  It had been a desperate fight in which quarter had been neither asked norgiven, hand to hand and face to face, with wild oaths and dreadfullaughter. He had not noticed the tumult at the time, but the echoes of itstill rang in his ears. A desperate fight against overwhelming odds! Forthe chateau had been strongly held, and the struggle for it had seemedTitanic, albeit only a detail of a rearguard action. There had been gunsthere that had harried them all the previous day. It had become a matterof necessity to silence those guns. So the effort had been made, aglorious effort crowned with success. They had mastered the garrison,they had silenced the guns; and then, within an hour of their victory,disaster had come upon them. Great numbers of the enemy had sweptsuddenly upon them, had surrounded them and swallowed them up.

  It was all over now. The tide of battle had swept on. The place wassilent as the grave. He was the only man left, flung as it were upon adust-heap in a corner of the world that had ceased to matter to anyone.

  He had lain for hours unconscious till those awful chills had awakenedhim. Doubtless he had been left for dead among his dead comrades. Hewondered why he was not dead. He had a distinct recollection of beingshot through the heart. And the bullet had gone out at his back. Hevividly remembered that also--the red-hot anguish as it had torn its waythrough him, the awful emptiness of death that had followed.

  How had he escaped--if he had escaped? How had he returned from thatgreat silence? Why had the dread Door shut against him only, imprisoninghim here when all the rest had passed through? There seemed to be somemystery about it. He tried to follow it out. Death was no difficultmatter. He was convinced of that. Yet somehow Death had eluded him. Hewas as a man who had lost his way in a fog. Doubtless he would find itagain. He did not want to wander alone in this valley of dry bones. Hewanted to get free. He was sure that sooner or later that searing,red-hot bullet would do its work.

  For a space he drifted back into the vast sea of unconsciousness in whichhe had been submerged for so long. Even that was bound to lead somewhere.Surely there was no need to worry!

  But very soon it ceased to be a calm sea. It grew troubled. It began totoss. He felt himself flung from billow to billow, and the sound of agreat storm rose in his ears.

  He opened his eyes suddenly wide to a darkness that could be felt, and itwas as though a flame of agony went through him, a raging thirst thatburned him fiendishly.

  Ah! He knew the meaning of that! It was horribly familiar to him. He wasback in hell--back in the torture-chamber where he had so often agonized,closed in behind those bars of iron which he had fought so often and sofruitlessly to force asunder.

  He stretched out his hands and one of them came into contact with the icycold of a dead man's face. It was the man who had shot him, and who inhis turn had been shot. He shuddered at the touch, shrank into himself.And again the fiery anguish caught him, set him writhing; shrivelled himas parchment is shrivelled in the flame. He went through it, racked withtorment, conscious of nought else in all the world, so pierced andpossessed by pain that it seemed as if all the suffering that those deadmen had missed were concentrated within him. He felt as if it mustshatter him, soul and body, dissolve him with its sheer intensity. Andyet somehow his straining flesh endured. He came through his inferno,sweating, gasping, with broken prayers and the wrung, bitter crying ofsmitten strength!

  Again the black sea took him, bearing him to and fro, deadening his painbut giving him no rest. He tossed on the troubled waters forinterminable ages. He watched a full moon rise blood-red and awful andturn gradually to a whiteness of still more appalling purity. For along, long time he watched it, trying to recall something which eludedhim, chasing a will-o'-the-wisp memory round and round the feveredlabyrinths of his brain.

  Then at last very suddenly it turned and confronted him. There in theold-world garden that was every moment growing more distinct anddefinite, he looked once more upon his wife's face in the moonlight, sawher eyes of shrinking horror raised to his, heard her low-spoken words:"I shall never forgive you."

  The vision passed, blotted out by returning pain. He buried his headbeneath his arms and groaned. . . .

  Again--hours after, it seemed,--the great cloud of his agony lifted. Hecame to himself, feeling deadly sick but no longer gripped by thatfiendish torture. He raised himself on his elbows and faced the blindingmoonlight. It seemed to pierce him, but he forced himself to meet it. Helooked forth over the silent garden.

  Strange silhouettes of shrubs weirdly fashioned filled the place. Ata little distance he caught the gleam of white marble, and therecame to him the tinkle of a fountain. He became aware again of ragingthirst--thirst that tore at the very root of his being. He gatheredhimself together for the greatest effort of his life. The sound ofthe water mocked him, maddened him. He would drink--he woulddrink--before he died!

  The man at his side lay with face upturned starkly to the moonlight. Itgleamed upon eyes that were glazed and sightless. The ground all aroundthem was dark with blood.

  Slowly Piers raised himself, feeling his heart pump with the effort,feeling the stiffened wound above it tear and gape asunder. He tried tohold his breath while he moved, but he could not. It came in sharp,painful gasps, sawing its way through his tortured flesh. But in spite ofit he managed to lift himself to his hands and knees; and then for along, long time he dared attempt no more. For he could feel the bloodflowing steadily from his wound, and a deadly faintness was upon himagainst which he needed all his strength to fight.

  He thought it must have overwhelmed him for a time at least; yet when itbegan to lessen he had not sunk down again. He was still propped uponhands and knees--the only living creature in that place of dead men.

  He could see them which ever way he looked over the trampledsward--figures huddled or outstretched in the moonlight, all motionless,ashen-faced.

  He saw none wounded like himself. Perhaps the wounded had been alreadycollected, perhaps they had crawled to shelter. Or perhaps he was theonly one against whom the Door had been closed. He had been left fordead. He had nothing to live for. Yet it seemed that he could not die.

  He looked at the man at his side lying wrapt in the aloofness of Death.Poor devil! How horrible he looked, and how indifferent! A sense ofshuddering disgust came upon Piers. He wondered if he would die ashideously.

  Again the fountain mocked him softly from afar. Again the fiery tormentof his thirst awoke. He contemplated attempting to walk, but instinctwarned him against the risk of a headlong fall. He began with infinitedifficulty to crawl upon hands and knees.

  His progress was desperately slow, the suffering it entailed wassometimes unendurable. And always he knew that the blood was drainingfrom him with every foot of ground he covered. But ever that maddeningfountain lured him on...

  The night had stretched into untold ages. He wondered if in hisfrequent spells of unconsciousness he had somehow missed many days. Hehad seen the moon swing half across the sky. He had watched withdelirious amusement the dead men rise to bury each other. And he hadspent hours in wondering what would happen to the last of them. Hishead felt oddly light, as if it were full of air, a bubble of prismaticcolours that might burst into nothingness at any moment. But his bodyfelt as if it were fettered with a thousand chains. He could hear themclanking as he moved.

  But still that fountain with its marble basin seemed the end and aim ofhis existence. Often he forgot to be thirsty now, but he never forgotthat he must reach the fountain before he died.

  Sometimes his thirst would come back in burning spasms to urge him on,and he always knew that there was a great reason for perseverance, alwaysfelt that if he slackened he would pay a terrible penalty.

  The fountain was very far away. He crawled along with ever-increasingdifficulty, marking the progress of his own shad
ow in the strongmoonlight. There was something pitiless about the moon. It revealed somuch that might have been mercifully veiled.

  From the far distance there came the long roll of cannon, shattering thepeace of the night, but it was a long way off. In the chateau-gardenthere was no sound but the tinkle of the fountain and the laboured,spasmodic breathing of a man wounded wellnigh unto death.

  Only a few yards separated him now from the running water. It soundedlike a fairy laughter, and all the gruesome horrors of the place fadedinto unreality. Surely it was fed by the stream at home that flowedthrough the preserves--the stream where the primroses grew!

  Only a few more yards! But how damnably difficult it was to cover them!He could hardly drag his weighted limbs along. It was the old game. Heknew it well. But how devilish to fetter him so! It had been the ruin ofhis life. He set his teeth, and forced himself on. He would win throughin spite of all.

  The moonlight poured dazzlingly upon the white marble basin, and on thefigure of a nymph who bent above it, delicately poised like a butterflyabout to take wing. He wondered if she would flee at his approach, butshe did not. She stood there waiting for him, a thing of infinitedaintiness, the one object untouched in that ravaged garden. Perhapsafter all it was she and not the fountain that drew him so irresistibly.He had a great longing to hear her speak, but he was afraid to addressher lest he should scare her away. She was so slight, so spiritual, soexquisite in her fairy grace. She made him think of Jeanie--little Jeaniewho had prayed for his happiness and had not lived to see her prayerfulfilled.

  He drew near with a certain stealthiness, fearing to startle her. Hewould have risen to his feet, but his strength was ebbing fast. He knewhe could not.

  And then--just ere he reached the marble basin, the goal of that long,bitter journey--he saw her turn a little towards him; he heard her speak.

  "Dear Sir Galahad!"

  "Jeanie!" he gasped.

  She seemed to sway above the gleaming water. Even then--even then--he wasnot sure of her--till he saw her face of childish purity and the happysmile of greeting in her eyes!

  "How very tired you must be!" she said.

  "I am, Jeanie! I am!" he groaned in answer. "These chains--these ironbars--I shall never get free!"

  He saw her white arms reach out to him. He thought her fingers touchedhis brow. And he knew quite suddenly that the journey was over, and hecould lie down and rest.

  Her voice came to him very softly, with a hushing tenderness through theminiature rush and gurgle of the water. As usual she sought to comforthim, but he heard a thrill of triumph as well as sympathy in her words.

  "He hath broken the gates of brass," she said. "And smitten the bars ofiron in sunder."

  His fingers closed upon the edge of the pool. He felt the water splashhis face as he sank down; and though he was too spent to drink he thankedGod for bringing him thither.

  Later it seemed to him that a Divine Presence came through the garden,that Someone stooped and touched him, and lo, his chains were broken andhis burden gone! And he roused himself to ask for pardon; which wasgranted to him ere that Presence passed away.

  He never knew exactly what happened after that night in the garden of theruined chateau. There were a great many happenings, but none of themseemed to concern him very vitally.

  He wandered through great spaces of oblivion, intersected with terriblestreaks of excruciating pain. During the intervals of this fearfulsuffering he was acutely conscious, but he invariably forgot everythingagain when the merciful unconsciousness came back. He knew in a vague waythat he lay in a hospital-tent with other dying men, knew when they movedhim at last because he could not die, suffered agonies unutterable uponan endless road that never seemed to lead to anywhere, and finally awoketo find that the journey had been over for several days.

  He tried very hard not to wake. Waking invariably meant anguish. Helonged unspeakably for Death, but Death was denied him. And when someonecame and stooped over him and took his nerveless hand, he whispered withclosed eyes an earnest request not to be called back.

  "It's such--a ghastly business--" he muttered piteously--"this waking."

  "Won't you speak to a friend, Piers?" a voice said.

  He opened his eyes then. He had not heard his own name for months. Helooked up into eyes that gleamed hawk-like through glasses, and a throbof recognition went through his heart.

  "You!" he whispered, striving desperately to master the sickening painthat that throb had started.

  "All right. Don't speak for a bit!" said Tudor quietly. "I think I canhelp you."

  He did help, working over him steadily, with the utmost gentleness, tillthe worst of the paroxysm was past.

  Piers was pathetically grateful. His high spirit had sunk very low inthose days. No one that he could remember had ever done anything to easehis pain before.

  "It's been--so infernal," he whispered presently. "You know--I wasshot--through the heart."

  Tudor's face was very grave. "Yes, you're pretty bad," he said. "Butyou've pulled through so far. It's in your favour, that. And look here,you must lie flat on your back always. Do you understand? It's about youronly chance."

  "Of living?" whispered Piers. "But I don't want to live. I want to die."

  "Don't be a fool!" said Tudor.

  "I'm not a fool. I hate life!" A tremor of passion ran through the words.

  Tudor laid a hand upon him. "Piers, if ever any man had anything to livefor, you are that man," he said.

  "What do you mean?" Piers' eyes, dark as the night through which he hadcome, looked up at him.

  "I mean just that. If you can't live for your own sake, live for hers!She wants you. It'll break her heart if you go out now."

  "Great Scott, man! You're not in earnest!" whispered Piers.

  "I am in earnest. I know exactly what I am saying. I don't talk atrandom. She loved you. She wants you. You've lived for yourself all yourlife. Now--you've got to live for her."

  Tudor's voice was low and vehement. A faint sparkle came into Piers' eyesas he heard it.

  "By George!" he said softly. "You're rather a brick, what? But haven'tyou thought--what might happen--if--if I went out after all? You used tobe rather great--at getting me out of the way."

  "I didn't realize how all-important you were," rejoined Tudor, with abitter smile. "You needn't go any further in that direction. It leads toa blank wall. You've got to live whether you like it or not. I'm goingto do all I can to make you live, and you'll be a hound if you don'tback me up."

  His eyes looked down upon Piers, dominant and piercingly intent.And--perhaps it was mere physical weakness, or possibly the voluntaryyielding of a strong will that was in its own way as great as thestrength to which it yielded--Piers surrendered with a meekness such asTudor had never before witnessed in him.

  "All right," he said. "I'll do--my best."

  And so oddly they entered into a partnership that had for its sole endand aim the happiness of the woman they loved; and in that partnershiptheir rivalry was forever extinguished.

  CHAPTER IX

  HOLY GROUND

  "They say he will never fight again," said Crowther gravely. "He maylive. They think he will live. But he will never be strong."

  "If only I might see him!" Avery said.

  "Yes, I know. That is the hardest part. But be patient a little longer!So much depends on it. I was told only this morning that any agitationmight be fatal. No one seems to understand how it is that he has managedto live at all. He is just hanging on, poor lad,--just hanging on."

  "I want to help him," Avery said.

  "I know you do. And so you can--if you will. But not by going to him.That would do more harm than good."

  "How else can I do anything?" she said. "Surely--surely he wantsto see me!"

  She was standing in Crowther's room, facing him with that in her eyesthat moved him to a great compassion.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. "My dear, of course he wants to see you;but there will be
no keeping him quiet when he does. He isn't equal toit. He is putting up the biggest fight of his life, and he wants all hisstrength for it. But you can do your part now if you will. You can godown to Rodding Abbey and make ready to receive him there. And you cansend Victor to help me with him as soon as he is able to leave thehospital. He and I will bring him down to you. And if you will be therejust in the ordinary way, I think there will be less risk of excitement.Will you do this, Avery? Is it asking too much of you?"

  His grey eyes looked straight down into hers with the wide friendlinessthat was as the open gateway to his soul, and some of the bitter strainof the past few weeks passed from her own as she looked back.

  "Nothing would be too much," she said. "I would do anything--anything.But if he should want me--and I were not at hand? If--if--heshould--die--" Her voice sank.

  Crowther's hand pressed upon her. "He is not going to die," he saidstoutly. "He doesn't mean to die. But he will probably have to go slowfor the rest of his life. That is where you will be able to help him. Hisonly chance lies in patience. You must teach him to be patient."

  Her lips quivered in a smile. "Piers!" she said. "Can you picture it?"

  "Yes, I can. Because I know that only patience can have brought him towhere he is at present. They say it is nothing short of a miracle, and Ibelieve it. God often works His miracles that way. And I always knewthat Piers was great."

  Crowther's slow smile appeared, transforming his whole face. He heldAvery's hand for a little, and let it go.

  "So you will do this, will you?" he said. "I think the boy would be justabout pleased to find you there. And you can depend on me to bring himdown to you as soon as he is able to bear it."

  "You are very good," Avery said. "Yes, I will go."

  But, as Crowther knew, in going she accepted the hardest part; and theweeks that she then spent at Rodding Abbey waiting, waiting with a sickanxiety, left upon her a mark which no time could ever erase.

  When Crowther's message came to her at last, she was almost too crushedto believe. Everything was in readiness, had been in readiness for weeks.She had prepared in fevered haste, telling herself that any day mightbring him. But day had followed day, and the news had always beendepressing, first of weakness, fits of pain, terrible collapses, andagain difficult recoveries. Not once had she been told that any groundhad been gained.

  And so when one day a telegram reached her earlier than usual, shehardly dared to open it, so little did she anticipate that the newscould be good.

  And even when the words stared her in the face: "Bringing Piers thisafternoon, Crowther," she could not for awhile believe them, and soughtinstinctively to read into them some sinister meaning.

  How she got through that day, she never afterwards knew. The hoursdragged leaden-footed. There was nothing to be done. She would not leavethe house lest by some impossible chance he might arrive before theafternoon, but she felt that to stay within its walls was unendurable. Sofor the most part she paced the terrace, breathing the dank, autumnalair, picturing every phase of his journey, but never daring to picturehis arrival, praying piteous, disjointed prayers that only her own soulseemed to hear.

  The afternoon began to wane, and dusk came down. A small drifting rainset in with the darkness, but she was not even aware of it till David,very deferential and subdued, came to her and suggested that if she wouldwait in the hall Sir Piers would see her at once, as he had taken theliberty to turn on all the lights.

  She knew that the old man made the suggestion out of the goodness of hisheart, and she fell in with it, realizing the wisdom of going within. Butwhen she found herself in the full glare of the great hall, alone withthose shining suits of armour that mounted guard on each side of thefireplace, the awful suspense came upon her with a force that nothingcould alleviate. She turned with sick loathing from the tea-tray thatDavid had placed for her so comfortingly close to the fire. Every momentthat passed was an added torture. It was dark, it was late. Theconviction was growing in her heart that when they came at last, theywould bring with them only her husband's dead body.

  She rose and went to the open door. Where was his spirit now, shewondered? Had he leapt ahead of that empty, travelling shell? Was healready close--close--his arm entwined in hers? She covered her facewith her hands. "Oh, Piers, I can't go on alone," she sobbed. "If you aredead--I must die too!"

  And then, as though in obedience to a voice that had spoken within her,she raised her head again and gazed forth. The rain had drifted away.Through scudding clouds of darkness there shone, serene and splendid, asingle star. Her heart gave a great throb, and was still.

  "The Star of Hope!" she murmured wonderingly. "The Star of Hope!"

  And in that moment inexplicably yet convincingly she knew that herprayers that had seemed so fruitless had been heard, and that an answerwas very near at hand....

  There came the sound of a horn from the direction of the lodge. Theywere coming.

  She turned her head and looked down the dark avenue. But she was nolonger agitated or distressed by fear. She knew not what might be instore for her, but somehow, mystically, she had been endued with strengthto meet it unafraid.

  She heard the soft buzz of a high-powered car, and presently two lightsappeared at the further end. They came towards her swiftly, almostsilently. It was like the swoop of an immense bird. And then in thestrong glare shed forth by the hall-lamps she saw the huge body of anambulance-car, and a Red Cross flared symbolic in the light.

  The car came to a stand immediately before her, and for a few momentsnothing happened. And still she was not afraid. Still she was as it wereguided and sustained and lifted above all turmoil. She seemed to stand ona mountain-top, above the seething misery that had for so long possessedher. She was braced to look upon even Death unshaken, undismayed.

  Steadily she moved. She went down to the car. Old David was behind her.He came forward and opened the door with fumbling, quivering hands. Shehad time to notice his agitation and to be sorry for him.

  Then a voice came to her from within, and a great throb went through herof thankfulness, of relief, of joy unspeakable.

  "Victor, you old ass, what are you blubbing for? Anyone would think--" Asudden pause, then in a low, eager tone, "Hullo,--Avery?"

  The incredulous interrogation of the words cut her to the heart. She wentup the step and into the car as if drawn by an irresistible magnetism,seeing neither Crowther nor Victor, aware only of a prone, gaunt figureon a stretcher, white-haired, skeleton-featured, that reached a tremblinghand to her and said again, "Hullo!"

  For one wild second she felt as if she were in the presence of old SirBeverley, so striking was the likeness that the drawn, upturned face boreto him. Then Piers' eyes, black as the night, smiled up at her,half-imperious, half-pleading, and the illusion was gone.

  She stooped over him, that trembling hand fast clasped in hers; but shecould not speak. No words would come.

  "Been waiting, what?" he said. "I hope not for long?"

  But still she could not speak. She felt choked. It was all so unnatural,so cruelly hard to bear.

  "I shan't be like this always," he said. "Afraid I look an awful guy justat present."

  That was all then, for Crowther came gently between them; and then heand Victor, with infinite care, lifted the stretcher and bore the masterof the house into his own home.

  Half an hour later Avery turned from waving a farewell to Crowther, whohad insisted upon going back to town with the car that had brought them,and softly shut out the night.

  She had had the library turned into a bedroom for Piers, and she crossedthe hall to the door with an eagerness that carried her no further.There, gripping the handle, she was stayed.

  Within, she could hear Victor moving to and fro, but she listened in vainfor her husband's voice, and a great shyness came upon her. She could notask permission to enter.

  Minutes passed while she stood there, minutes of tense listening,during which she scarcely seemed to breathe. Then very su
ddenly sheheard a sound that set every nerve a-quiver--a groan that was more ofweariness than pain, but such weariness as made her own heart throb inpassionate sympathy.

  Almost without knowing it, she turned the handle of the door, and openedit. A moment more, and she was in the room.

  He was lying flat in the bed, his dark eyes staring upwards out of deephollows that had become cruelly distinct. There was dumb endurance inevery line of him. His mouth was hard set, the chin firm as granite. Andeven then in his utter helplessness there was about him a greatness, amute, unconscious majesty, that caught her by the throat.

  She went softly to the bedside.

  He turned his head at her coming, not quickly, not with any eagerness ofwelcome; but with that in his eyes, a slow kindling, that seemed tosurround her with the glow of a great warmth.

  But when he spoke, it was upon no intimate subject. "Has Crowthergone?" he asked.

  His voice was pitched very low. She saw that he spoke with deliberatequietness, as if he were training himself thereto.

  "Yes," she made answer. "He wouldn't stay."

  "He couldn't," said Piers. "He is going to be ordained tomorrow."

  "Oh, is he?" she said in surprise. "He never told me!"

  "He wouldn't," said Piers. "He never talks about himself." He moved hishand slightly towards her. "Won't you sit down?"

  She glanced round. Victor was advancing behind her with a chair. Piers'eyes followed hers, and an instant later, turning back, she saw his quickfrown. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers with the old imperiousgesture, pointing to the door; and in a moment Victor, with a smile ofpeculiar gratification, put down the chair, trotted to it, opened it witha flourish, and was gone.

  Avery was left standing by the bed, slightly uncertain, wanting to smile,but wanting much more to cry.

  Piers' hand fell heavily. For a few seconds he lay perfectly still, withquickened breathing and drawn brows. Then his fingers patted the edge ofthe bed. "Sit down, sweetheart!" he said.

  It was Piers the boy-lover who spoke to her with those words, and,hearing them, something seemed to give way within her. It was as if atight band round her heart had suddenly been torn asunder.

  She sank down on her knees beside the bed, and hid her face in hispillow. Tears--tears such as she had not shed since the beginningof their bitter estrangement--came welling up from her heart andwould not be restrained. She sobbed her very soul out there besidehim, subconsciously aware that in that hour his strength wasgreater than hers.

  Like an overwhelming torrent her distress came upon her, caught hertempestuously, swept her utterly from her own control, tossed her hitherand thither, flung her at last into a place of deep, deep silence, where,still kneeling with head bowed low, she became conscious, strangely,intimately conscious, of the presence of God.

  It held her like a spell, that consciousness. She was as one who kneelsbefore a vision. And even while she knelt there, lost in wonder, therecame to her the throbbing gladness of faith renewed, the certainty thatall would be well.

  Piers' hand was on her head, stroking, caressing, soothing. By no wordsdid he attempt to comfort her. It was strange how little either of themfelt the need of words. They were together upon holy ground, and incloser communion each with each than they had ever been before. Thosetears of Avery's had washed away the barrier.

  Once, some time later, he whispered to her, "I never asked you to forgiveme, Avery; but--"

  And that was the nearest he ever came to asking her forgiveness. For shestopped the words with her lips on his, and he never thought of utteringthem again.

  EPILOGUE

  Christmas Eve and children's voices singing in the night! Two figures bythe open window listening--a man and a woman, hand in hand in the dark!

  "Don't let them see us yet!" It was the woman's voice, low but with adeep thrill in it as of full and complete content. "I knew they werecoming. Gracie whispered it to me this morning. But I wasn't to tellanyone. She was so afraid their father might forbid it."

  The man answered with a faint, derisive laugh that yet had in it an echoof the woman's satisfaction. He did not speak, for already through thewinter darkness a single, boyish voice had taken up another verse:

  "He comes, the prisoners to releaseIn Satan's bondage held;The gates of brass before Him burst,The iron fetters yield."

  The woman's fingers clung fast to his. "Love opens every door," shewhispered.

  His answering grip was close and strong. But he said nothing while thelast triumphant lines were repeated.

  "The gates of brass before Him burst,The iron fetters yield."

  The next verse was sung by two voices in harmony, very soft and hushed.

  "He comes the broken heart to bind,The bleeding soul to cure,And with the treasures of His graceTo bless the humble poor."

  Then came a pause, while through the quiet night there floated the soundof distant bells.

  "Look!" said Piers suddenly.

  And Avery, kneeling beside him, raised her eyes.

  There, high above the trees, alone and splendid, there shone a great,quivering star.

  His arm slid round her neck. "The Star of Hope, Avery," he whispered."Yours--and mine."

  She clung to him silently, with a closeness that was passionate.

  And so the last verse, very clear and strong, came to them out ofthe night.

  "Our glad hosannas, Prince of Peace,Thy welcome shall proclaim,And Heaven's eternal arches ringWith Thy beloved Name.And Heaven's eternal arches ringWith Thy beloved Name."

  Avery leaned her head against her husband's shoulder. "I hear an angelsinging," she said.

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes later, Gracie stood in the great hall with the red glow ofthe fire spreading all about her, her bright eyes surveying the master ofthe house who lay back in a low easy-chair with his wife kneeling besidehim and Caesar the Dalmatian curled up with much complacence at his feet.

  "How very comfy you look!" she remarked.

  And, "We are comfy," said Piers, with a smile.