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 sternly back into a close-packed front opposite the compound wall where the tragedy was to be set.

Two soldiers came and stood at the carce] door, one on either side; others were issuing from the barracks where the drum clamored. The waiting people caught their breath with a sound like a sob when the door opened. There were two soldiers in front, two in the rear; between them Helena, a dark-robed priest beside her.

"She does not die for treason to her country, but for fidelity to one she loves," said the young man who had expressed his willingness to help set her free.

"It is well known that the general's jealousy has burned the heart out of him, leaving him as hollow as a barrel," the innkeeper said.

An officer came forward and assumed command of the party conducting the prisoner. There was a pause before the prison door, while the priest seemed taking his farewell of Helena, who lifted her face, so white it seemed radiant, and smiled.

"I thank God I am not in that squad!" said a soldier at the edge of the crowd. He wiped sweat from his forehead. Women gave him their blessing with their eyes.

Helena was dressed as she was when the soldiers tore her from Don Abrahan's house, in the simple white gown she had worn when she came to the window to talk with Henderson. Her head was bare, her abundant hair gathered with care into a girlish braid which hung across her shoulder and