At last the man looked up, and smiled, and eyed the golden mountain-tops
far off across the valley.
"Wonderful aerie in the hills!" he murmured. "Wonderful retreat and
hiding-place--wonderful care and forethought to have made this possible
for me! How shall I ever repay all this? How, save by giving my last
drop of blood, if need be, for the final victory?"
He pondered a moment, still half-thinking of the poem he had just
finished, half-reflecting on the strange events of the past week--the
secret ways, by swift auto, by boat, by monoplane which had brought him
hither to this still undiscovered refuge. How had it all been arranged,
he wondered; and who had made it possible? He could not tell, as yet. No
information was forthcoming. But in his heart he understood, and his
lips, murmuring the name of Catherine, blessed that name and tenderly
revered it.
At last Gabriel bent, picked up the pages that had fallen, and arranged
them all in order.
"Tomorrow this shall go out to the world," said he, "and to our
press--such of it as still remains.
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