world in which he had no part, no place, in which he was an outcast, where between them would lie a gulf in length and breadth and depth unutterable, where no crossing was—but this one instant, snatched from all eternity, was his. That kiss, a symbol of the holiest, purest thing he had ever known, could never wrong her, never do her hurt.
He reached the window and held her where the air would strike her face. They saw him from below—he heard them shout. Her gold-spun hair, loosened, lay in waving masses across his shoulder and his arm. He buried his face in it, touching it with his lips, as he stood there waiting. It was the one moment he was to have in all his life. Gently, tenderly he held her, his head bowed—it was this he was to look back upon, to dwell upon through all the years to come—his moment, that he should remember when he came to die.
They were coming now. He heard a ladder thump against the window sill. He raised his head—and upon the parched lips, the scorched face, came the old, brave, quiet smile, as he reached out and laid her in her father's arms.
