"Whose grave?" he demanded sharply, her sympathy for the first time striking a discordant note in his soul.
"Her grave," she answered, wonderingly, "your wife's."
He slid from his saddle, allowing his horse to turn to the lush grass, and came to her side. He took her hand in both of his and looked up into her face with an intensity that startled her.
"That grave was your grave, Paula," he said. "Can you not understand?"
"It is hard to realize," she faltered.
"And you are my wife!"
She turned pale so suddenly that he would have been alarmed, had not the fugitive dye instantly returned deeper than before upon cheek and brow.
"Your wife!"
"My wife in the sight of God! Oh, have no doubt of it; for your indecision would drive me mad! Paula was my wife, and you are Paula!"
"Yes, but Paula in another form."