"You should not take all the blame," she said. "I, too, need to be forgiven."
He held her hand between his palms, then raised it to his lips.
"Margaret," he said, "you are the only woman I have ever loved."
"Max!" The word fell from her lips like a sob. "Max!"
He drew her to him and kissed the dark hair where it lay smooth against her forehead.
"Will you be my wife, Margaret, my loved and honored wife?"
Her eyes scanned his face; not a line of pain, not a mark of suffering escaped her. All his struggles, his rebellion, his victories, and all the soul within him lay bare before her deep-seeing eyes. She laid her hand on his face, that dear face so intense and strong, and wondered keenly in how many ages, how many worlds, how many lives, she had known him.
The squirrel, disturbed by their presence, stopped midway on the tree trunk and chattered noisily; again the drumming of the partridge and the woodland voices blended, now rich and full in a glad song of triumph, praise, victory.
CHAPTER XIX
"WHERE IS YOUR FAITH?"