The drift of the ages confronted her. Her own insignificance, her humbleness, accentuated and betrayed her. Who would listen? How dared she speak! Who would heed her?
One, and one only. Margaret Moffatt!
From her Priscilla shrank and hid until she could gain courage to go and—by saving her, kill her! Yes, it meant that. The killing of the beautiful All Woman, as Travers had called her. After the telling there would be only the shadow of the splendid creature that God had meant to be so happy, if only the wrong of the world had not come between!
There were moments when, worn by struggle and wakeful nights, Priscilla felt incapable of sane thought.
Why should she interfere, she asked herself. Professional silence was her only course. And—there was the chance—the chance! Against it stood, pleading, Margaret's radiant love and Huntter's strength and devotion.
Who could blame her if she—forgot? But oh! how they would curse her if she spoke! They might not believe; they might ruin her!
Then faith laid its commanding touch upon her spirit. It had been given her to know a woman who, for high principles and all the sacred future, was prepared to sacrifice her love if needs must be!
They two, Margaret of the high-soul, and she, Priscilla Glenn of the understanding devotion, seemed to stand apart and alone, each, in her way, called upon to testify and act.
"It must be done!" moaned Priscilla; "she must know and—decide! But how? how?"
John Boswell and Master Farwell were gone to the In-Place. The sanctuary overlooking the river was closed. There was no one, no place, to which Priscilla could go for comfort and advice, and her secret and her duty left her no peace or rest.