He bowed his head. "I understand," he said simply. The colour had suddenly flooded into his cheeks, and there was a mist before his eyes. Even in that supreme moment, when her senses were failing and her eyes were growing dim, she saw and understood.

"I wanted to be kind to her always," she faltered. "We would have adopted her, but she would not stay here. She was unhappy, and I helped her to escape. I had my reasons!"

He had already guessed at them, and he held out his hand. He did not wish to hear any more. There was a moment's silence. She was looking at him with dim, wistful eyes.

"You—you are very like your father!" she said, painfully. "Will you kiss me?"

He stooped down and kissed the pale, trembling lips, and held her hands tightly. Her breath was coming fast, and she spoke with difficulty.

"Thank God they brought you here instead of the doctor! I can die—at peace now! But you—you are in danger! You must escape from here! You must not lose a minute! Oh, you do not know! you do not know! The Count is cruel—bitterly cruel! He will not come to me although I die. He will not forgive, although I have suffered agonies! He is my father but he will not forgive me. And you—you are in danger if he finds you! They have gone for him! Ah! I remember! Father Andrew went for him! He is afraid that I shall tell you the truth, and that the Church will not gain your property. Quick! you must go! Kiss me once more, Paul, and go! Go quickly! These monks are wolves, but they are cowards! Strike them down if they try to stop you! Don't hurt my father! Farewell! farewell!"

"I will stay with you till the end," Paul whispered.

"No, no! away! I cannot die in peace and think of you—in danger. I want to pray. Leave me, now, Paul. Dear Martin! Martin, my love—is it you?"

Her mind was wandering, and she saw her lover of old days in the man whose hand she clasped so frantically; and Paul, although out in the passage he could hear the sound of hurrying feet, could not tear himself away from her dying embrace. A faint, curious smile was parting her pallid lips, and her dim eyes seemed suddenly to have caught a dim reflection of the light to come.

"Martin! Martin! there is a mist everywhere—but I see you, dear love! Wait for me! Let us go hand in hand—hand in hand through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Oh, my love! it has been a weary, weary while. Hold me tighter, Martin! I cannot feel your hand! Ah! at last, at last! Farewell sorrow, and grief, and suffering! We are together once more—a new world—behind the clouds! I am happy."



CHAPTER XXXV

"FROM OUT LIFE'S THUNDERS TO A STRANGE, SWEET WORLD"

She was dead, and, after all, her end had been crowned with peace. She did not hear the door thrown roughly open, the swelling of angry voices, or the fast-approaching tramp of many feet. Nor did Paul heed any of these signs of coming danger; he had folded his strong arms around her, and his lips, pressed close to her, seemed to draw the last quivering breath from her frail body. It was only when her head sunk back, and he knew that she was dead, that he laid her reverently down and turned around.

The room was full of strange flashes of light and grotesque shadows falling upon the white faces of half a dozen monks. Standing in front of them was Father Andrew, and by his side was an old man, tall and straight, with snow-white beard and hair. He stood in full glare of a torch held by one of the monks behind him, and his face seemed like the face of a corpse, save for the steady, malignant light in his jet-black eyes. As Paul turned round, with his features suddenly visible in a stream of lurid light, he raised his arm and pointed a long, skinny finger steadily towards him.

"The son of the devil!" he cried, his deep, tremulous voice awakening strange echoes in the high vaulted chamber. "Welcome! Welcome! Thrice welcome!"

Paul straightened himself, and reverently laid the little white hand which he had been clasping across the coverlet. "She is dead!" he said solemnly. "What I came here to learn from you, I have learnt from her. Let me go!"

He moved a step forward, but the old man remained there in the way, motionless, and around the door were gathered a solid phalanx of monks. Paul halted, conscious at once of his danger. The white faces of the monks were all bent upon him, full of savage, animal ferocity, and a gleam of something still worse lit up the dark eyes of that old man. Their very silence was unnatural and oppressive. Paul bore it, looking round amongst them with questioning eyes, until he could bear it no longer.

"Am I a prisoner?" he cried. "What do you want with me? Speak! some of you! Count of Cruta, answer me!"

A dull, hollow laugh echoed through the chamber. Paul turned away, sick with horror. It was like being in the power of a hoard of madmen. The air of the place, too, seemed suddenly to have become stifling. The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead in great beads. It was a relief when the Count spoke.

"You have done well, Paul de Vaux, to find your way here—here into the very presence of a dying woman, and force from her lips a confession that has made you glad. You think that you will go back now to your country, and cheat me of my well-planned vengeance. You will hold up your head once more; you will mock at the Church's rights. You will go your way through the world rich and honoured; you will call yourself by an old name. You will pluck all the roses of life. Worthy son of a worthy father! Look at me! Who was it who blasted my life, my happiness, my honour, my name? A name grander and older than his, as the oak is older and grander than the currant bush. When he took my daughter into his arms, he wrote the funeral of his race! I played with him, as a tiger plays with a miserable Hindoo! When life was sweetest to him, I struck. He came here for mercy; I laughed, and I was merciful. I stabbed him to the heart. The knife hangs side by side with the arms of the Crusaders of Cruta. You are his son! You are the next to die! You will not leave these walls alive! These monks know you! It is you who hold the lands of De Vaux, which by right belong to their Holy Church. You would go back to resist their just claims! The good of the Church demands that you should not go back! You shall not go back! The Count of Cruta demands that you shall not go back. You shall not go back! You shall be slain, even where your father was slain, but you shall not creep back to your hole to die! Your bones shall whiten and shrivel upon the rocks. Your blood shall be an honoured stain upon my floor. Monks of Cruta! there he stands! He who alone can resist your just possession of the broad lands and abbey of De Vaux. The despoiled Church cries to you to strike. The end is great! Haul him away!"

They were around him like a pack of wolves, their lean faces hungry and fierce, and their long, skinny fingers clutching at his throat and at his clothing. One silently drew a knife and brandished it over him. Paul wrenched himself free with a tremendous effort, but they were upon him again. They forced him slowly backwards, backwards even across the bed where that dead woman lay with her eyes as yet unclosed. The great heat, as much as their numbers, was overpowering him. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a choking in his throat. Again the long knife was lifted; other hands held him motionless, ready for the blow. He was too weak to struggle now. He saw the blue steel quivering in the air. Then he closed his eyes.

What was that? There was a shrill cry from one of the monks, and Paul, finding their grasp relaxed, started up. They were cowering down like a flock of frightened animals. The room seemed full of red fire. The glass in the windows cracked; it flew into pieces, and a column of smoke curled in. The door was thrown open; Guiseppe stood for a moment on the threshold.

"Fly!" he cried. "Fly! The castle is on fire. The flames are near!"

They rushed for the door like panic-stricken cattle before a great prairie fire, biting and trampling upon one another in their haste. Paul followed, but the old Count stood in his way, trembling, not with fear, but with anger.

"Cowards! beasts!" he cried after the flying monks. "But you shall not escape me!"

He wound his long arms around his enemy, but the strength of his manhood was gone, and without effort Paul threw him on one side. Then, through the smoke, he found himself face to face with Guiseppe.

"This way, Signor!" he said coolly. "Follow me closely!"

The old Count was up again, and seemed about to attack them. Suddenly he changed his mind, and with a hoarse cry, ran down an empty corridor. Guiseppe and Paul turned in the opposite direction.

"We must fly, Signor!" the man cried. "He goes to the cellars! He is a devil! He will blow up the castle! Cover up your nose and your mouth!"

They hurried along wide, deserted corridors, down stone stairs, and finally reached what seemed to be a circular underground passage. Round and round they went, until Paul's head swam; but the air was cooler, and every moment brought relief. Suddenly there was a cold breeze. They turned one more corner, and Guiseppe stopped. They were in an open aperture facing the sea, barely twenty feet below. A small boat with a single man in it was there waiting.

"Dive!" cried Guiseppe. "We must not wait for the rope!"

Over they went almost simultaneously. The shock of the cold water sent the blood dancing once more through Paul's veins. He came to the surface just after his guide, cool and refreshed. They scrambled into the boat, and Paul gave a little cry of wonder. They were drifting on a sea of ruddy gold, and the space all around them was brilliant with the reflection. High above, the flames were leaping up towards the sky, and the dull sing-song of their roar set the very air vibrating. Guiseppe, still dripping, seized an oar.

"Pull, for your lives! pull!" he cried anxiously.

His companion shrugged his shoulders. "But why?"

"Ask no questions! You will see!"

They did see. They were barely half-way to the yacht, when there came the sound of a low rumbling from the castle. Suddenly it broke into a roar. Belching sheets of flame burst out on every side. Huge cracks in that brilliant light were suddenly visible in the walls, creeping in a jagged line from the foundation to the turret. Fragments of the stone work flew outwards and upwards. It seemed as though some mighty internal force were splitting the place up. The men in the boat sat breathless and transfixed. Only Guiseppe whispered: "It is the old Count! He is the devil! He has blown the place up!"

There was another, and then a series of explosions. Fragments of the rock and stone fell hissing into the water scarcely a hundred feet away. Great waves rolled towards them. It seemed as though the earth underneath were shaking. Then it all died away, and there was silence. Only the blackened walls of the castle remained, with the dying flames still curling fitfully around them. The air grew darker, and the colour faded from the sea.

"It is the last of the Count of Cruta, and his castle of horrors!" cried Guiseppe. "God be thanked!"



CHAPTER XXXVI

"LOVE THAN DEATH ITSELF MORE STRONG"

I had no thought of writing in you again, my silent friend. Only a little while ago I said to myself, the time has gone by when solitude and heart hunger could drive me to your pages for consolation. Only a little while ago, it is true; and yet between the past and future is fixed a mighty gulf. As I write these words I stand upon the threshold of death! What death may mean, I know not! I have no religion to throw bright gleams of hope upon its dark mysteries. I have no hope of any other life, save the one I am quitting! If I am resigned and calm, it is because the lamp of my life has burnt out, and I am in darkness. I wait for death as a maiden waits for the first gleams of dawn on her marriage day.

Who said that love was everlasting? They lied! Love is a dream, a floating shadow full of golden lights, quenched by the first breath of morning! Who should know, if I do not know? Who has done more for love than I—I whose hands are red with blood, I who this night must die? It was for his sake, I struck—for his sake! and now that the hour of my punishment must come, I sit here alone and forsaken, waiting for the signal which must end my life! It was for his sake! A death-white face rises up before me, and a hoarse, dying cry sobs ever in my ears! I pass on my way through the Valley of the Shadow of Death with no hope to cheer me, forsaken, friendless, and shaken with dim fears! Am I alone! He for whom I struck has turned from me. Oh, the bitter cruelty of it! It was he who taught me what love was, and yet of love he knows nothing, else I would not be here to meet my doom alone! Oh! Paul, Paul! Oh, for one touch of your hand, for one kind look! My heart is sick and faint with longing! Am I indeed so low and vile a thing that you should turn away with never a single word of farewell? O! my love, you are hard indeed! If my hands are stained with blood—for whose sake was it? It was only a word I craved for, Paul! Only a word—a look, even! Was it too great a boon to grant?

* * * * *

Oh, memory! help me, help me to keep sane just a few more hours—until the end comes. It is a last luxury! I will think of those golden days we spent together ere the blow fell. Ah! how happy we were! Every breath of life was sweet; every moment seemed charged with the delicious happiness! The past, with its haunting shadows, and the memory of that grim, deathly figure huddled up amongst the ferns in the bare pine wood had perished. Background and foreground had vanished in the bewildering joys of the present. Oh! Paul, that was happiness, indeed. All measures of outside things seemed lost! At times I found it hard to recollect in what country we were! Oh! the world, such as ours was, is a sweet, sweet world!

At last the blow fell. He came to me one morning, as white as a sheet, with an old, soiled copy of the Times in his hand.

"Read, Adrea," he cried, thrusting it into my hand. "A horrible thing has happened!"

I let the paper fall through my fingers. An agony of fear was upon me. "I know! I know! Do not ask me to read it."

"You knew, and you did not tell me!"

"No! I—no!"

There was a deadly swimming before my eyes, and a throbbing in my ears. I sank back, grateful for the unconsciousness which gave me respite, however short. When recovered, I was on the verge of a fever; and Paul, seeing my condition, did not refer to the news which had been such a shock to him. But for an hour the next day he was away from me, writing letters home. When he returned there was a restraint between us. He was kind as ever, but restless and unsettled. As yet he had no suspicion, but I could see that he was longing to get back to England.... The thought was like madness to me.

Then came the beginning of the end. We were staying in a villa which we had rented for a month near Florence, and one day we drove into the city together to do some shopping. Paul was at the post-office, and I was crossing the square to go to him, when of a sudden I felt a hand upon my dress, and a hoarse whisper in my ear. I started round in terror. A man, pale and hollow-eyed, stood by my side. It was Gomez!

"Listen quickly!" he said. "I must not stay by your side! You are in danger! The English police are upon your track!"

I caught hold of the railing to prevent myself from falling. Above my head, a little flock of pigeons lazily flapped their wings against the deep blue sky. All around, the sunlit air was full of laughing voices, and gaily dressed crowds of people were passing backwards and forwards only a few yards away. Already, one or two were glancing in my direction curiously. In a moment Paul would come out of the post-office, looking for me. I made a great effort, and steadied myself.

"Tell me! What can I do?"

He answered me quickly, keeping his back turned to the stream of people. "You must fly! It may be already too late, but in twenty-four hours you will certainly be arrested if you are in Florence. I have travelled night and day to find you. The holy saints grant that it may not be too late. Call yourself by a strange name; and if Paul de Vaux be with you, see that he alters his also. There are already two of the detectives in Florence searching for you. A third, with a warrant, may be here at any time. Get to the furthest corner of the world, for everything is known. Farewell!"

He left me abruptly; and although I felt that my doom had been spoken, I walked firmly across the square to meet Paul. I would tell him everything. He should be my judge. My love should plead for me! It would triumph; yes! it would triumph! I was convinced of it! As for the danger I was in, I thought less of that.

On the steps of the postoffice I met Paul. He held in his hand a bundle of papers, one of which he had opened, and, as he raised his head and looked at me, I saw that what I had dreaded had come to pass. He looked like a man stricken down by some sudden and terrible blow. He was white even to the lips, and a strange light burned in his eyes.

He laid his hand upon my arm. Was it my fancy, or did he really recoil a little as he touched me? "Let us go home!" he said hoarsely. "I have—something to say to you!"

We entered the carriage, which was waiting near, and drove off. We came together into this room. It was barely two hours ago. He closed the door and turned towards me. I did not wait for his question. I told him everything!

Ah me! I had thought that love was a different thing. I had sinned, it is true, but he was not my judge. So I commenced, humbled and sorrowful indeed, but with no fear of what was before me. But gradually, as I watched his face, a cold, ghastly dread crept in upon me. What did it mean—that blank look of horror, his quiet withdrawal from the only caress I attempted? I finished—abruptly—and called out to him piteously,—

"Paul! Paul! Why do you turn away? Oh! kiss me, Paul! It was horrible, but it was to save you!"

He did not answer; he did not hold out his arms, or make any movement towards me. I touched his arm; and oh! horrible! he shuddered. I crept away into a corner of the room, with a strange, burning pain in my heart.

"How long is it, since you saw Gomez?" he asked, and his voice, strained, yet low, seemed to come from a far distance.

"An hour!—perhaps more—I cannot tell!"

He stood before the door like a ghost. "I must go and try to find him! Forgive me, Adrea! I cannot talk now! I will come back!"

So he left me. I have not seen him since! God only knows whether I shall see him again! My heart is torn with the agony of it! I cannot bear it any longer! If he is not here in half an hour I shall end it!

* * * * *

He has not come! Ten minutes more!

Five minutes!

* * * * *

It is done; I have taken poison! In half an hour I shall be dead! Oh! Paul, my love, my love, come to me! If I could only die in your arms, if I could only feel once more your kisses upon my lips! It is horrible to die alone! Already I feel weaker! Oh! if there be a God in heaven, send me Paul just for one last moment! I do not ask for forgiveness or pardon, only send me Paul! I am afraid to die alone! Never to see him again! Oh! I shall cry out! Paul! Paul! come to me! I do not ask for heaven, only to die in his arms, to——

* * * * *

There were sounds upon the stairs, and in the hall; the sounds of a man's quick entrance and approach. Adrea, with that passionate prayer still quivering upon her lips, dragged herself to the door and listened. A moment's agonised apprehension, and then she staggered back, faint with joy. The door was opened, and quickly closed; Paul stood before her.

"Oh! my love! my love," she murmured. "Take me in your arms! It is for the last time!"

He moved to her side, and supported her. "Adrea," he said quietly, "I want you to change your things quickly, and come with me. There is a carriage at the door, and I have chartered a steamer to take us to Genoa. From there we can sail to-morrow for New York. Gomez was right; you are in danger here! Be brave, little woman, and all will be well!"

She clung to him passionately, with her arms locked around his neck, and her wet face close to his. Only a confused sense of his words reached her. His tone and his embrace were sufficient.

"And you?"

"I go with you, of course! We shall begin a new life in a new world! Come! We have no time to lose!"

"A new life in a new world." She repeated the words dreamily, still holding him to her. Then a sudden dizziness came. It passed away, but it reminded her that the end could not be far off.

"Adrea, do you not understand? How cold your lips are! Try and bear up, love! We have a long journey before us!"

She shook her head slowly. He began to notice that she was like a dead weight in his arms.

"It is a long journey, love, but I go alone. You cannot come, Paul! Yet I am not afraid, now that you are here!"

"Adrea! what do you mean? I will not leave you! Have courage! Adrea! Soon we shall leave all dangers behind us!"

"Paul! do you not understand? I am dying!"

Dying! He looked at her face, calm and even smiling, but terribly blanched and white, and he saw the empty phial upon the table. The whole truth swept in upon him. He staggered and almost fell with her.

"It is best so," she whispered. "I only minded when—I thought that you might not be back in time. I am quite—content now!"

"A doctor!" he cried hoarsely. "I must fetch a doctor! Adrea——"

"Please don't!" she interrupted. "Long before he could come—I should be dead. It is so much better! Did you think, Paul, that I could have you—tied for life—to a poor, hunted woman—forced to live always in a foreign country? Oh! no, no! I have had this poison by me ever since—in case—anything happened. Paul, carry me—to the sofa! There is—no pain—but I am getting weaker—very weak. My eyes are a little dim, too—but I can see you—Paul!"

He obeyed her, and sank on his knees, with his arms still around her. It seemed to him that she had never been so lovely as in those last few minutes of her life. It was wonderful to see her resigned as she was.

There was a brief silence, broken only by a sharp, convulsed sob from the kneeling man. Adrea, who heard it, stretched out her hand, and passed it caressingly along the side of his face. He caught it and covered it with kisses.

"Paul, we have been happy together, have we not?"

"My darling, you know it!"

She raised herself a little, and spoke earnestly. "For me—it has been like heaven—and yet I am not sure—that it would have lasted. You would have wearied soon! My nature is too light a one to have satisfied you always. I have felt it! I—I know it!"

She paused, struggling for breath. He did not answer her. He only held her tighter, and whispered her name lovingly. In a moment she re-opened her eyes.

"So—it is best—" she continued, with a little more effort. "Paul, things seem all so clear—to me now! I think of you in the future—it must be a happy future, Paul—I know it will! I see you the master of that grand old home of yours, up amongst the moors you love so much. I can see you there in the future, living your quiet, country life—always the same, honourable and just. I like to think of you there—it is so natural. I want you—to forget—these days then! Remember that it was—I—who—came to you, Paul! You had no—choice. I would come. If there has been—any sin—it has been—mine only. You were far above—poor me! I have dragged you down—a little way—but you will go back again! You will marry—some one good and worthy of you. It is my—last wish! God bless you, Paul, dear—dear, Paul. I think that I am—going now—kiss me!"

"My love! My love! Oh! that you could live to be happy with me once more!"

"There are steps upon the stairs—I think—but they come—too late! The book on the table—take it! It will—tell you—what you do not know—of my life! Farewell! Sister Elise! Is that you? Ah! back once more—in the old convent garden! How sweet—and gentle—the air is—and what perfumes! You here, Paul! You too! How dim your face seems—and yet—how happy it makes me—to see it. Dear Paul! we have been—so happy! Farewell!"

* * * * *

There were strangers in the room, but they came too late. They found only the corpse of a woman, whose dead lips were parted in a strangely sweet smile, and a strong man who had swooned by her side in the utter abandonment of his grief. The hand of human justice had been stayed by God's mercy!

THE END.



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