"Lend me yours, Paolo," he next requested, holding his hands out for the required article.

With this second handkerchief twisted into a rope the captain firmly tied together the feet of the captive.

Jim was now as effectually bound as if his fetters had been iron or rope; but he was beginning to show signs of recovery. The viscount saw this and applied the chloroform again, and Jim relapsed into insensibility. In this condition he was conveyed into the boat and rowed swiftly to the vessel.

Meanwhile Lord Vincent and his confederates in crime retraced their steps up the cliff.

"We must be very quick this time, for the household will soon be astir," whispered Lord Vincent eagerly, as he noticed on the eastern horizon the faint dawn of the late winter morning.

They entered the castle, which, luckily for them, was still buried in repose, and wound their circuitous way back to the turret where the last victim, poor Sally, lay.

The viscount opened the oaken door and preceded his companions into her chamber.

But, oh, horror! Sally was awake and up! She was seated on the side of her bed and in the act of putting on her shoes. On seeing the viscount enter she raised her eyes and gazed in dumb amazement.

He lost no time. Like a wild beast he sprang upon her before she could utter a cry.

Throwing one arm around her throat, with his hand upon her mouth, he forced her head back against his breast and applied the chloroform until she succumbed to its fatal power and sunk like a corpse in his arms.

Then his two accomplices took her, and by the same winding route of halls, stairs, and passages carried her out of the castle and down to the beach, where the boat was waiting to receive her. They put her into it, and the viscount, the captain, and the mate followed.

In three minutes they reached the vessel, and all went on board, taking the captive girl with them.

The viscount accompanied the captain to his little office and received the six hundred pounds in gold which was the price of this last infamy.

Then the accomplices shook hands and parted.

The sailors rowed the viscount back to the shore, and then returned to their vessel. The viscount stood on the beach, watching the brigantine until she raised her anchor and made sail. And then, as it was growing light, he turned and climbed the cliff and entered the castle, wearing a smile of triumph.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE END OF CLAUDIA'S PRIDE.

Is she saved by pangs that pained her?

Is there comfort in all it cost her?

Before the world had gained her, Before the Lord had lost her, Or her soul had quite disdained her?

For her soul--(and this is the worst To bear, as we well know)-- Has been watching her from the first As closely as God could do, And herself her life has curst!

Talk of the flames of hell, We build, ourselves, I conceive, The fire the fiend lights.--Well!

Believe or disbelieve, We know more than we tell.

--_Owen Meredith._

After a sleepless night, whose lonely anguish would have driven almost any woman who was compelled to endure it mad, Claudia arose and rung her bell.

No one answered it.

Too impatient to wait for the tardy attendance of her servants, Claudia thrust her feet into slippers, drew on her dressing-gown, and went and opened the window-shutters to let in the morning light.

Then she rang again.

Still no one obeyed the summons.

She was not alarmed. Even with the knowledge of what had gone before, she felt no uneasiness. She went to the dressing glass and loosened her hair, and let it fall all over her shoulders to relieve her burning head. And then she bathed her face in cold water. She was impatient to make her toilet and leave the castle.

She knew that all was over with her worldly grandeur; that all her splendid dreams had vanished forever; that obscurity, perhaps deepened by degradation, was all that awaited her in the future.

Wounded, bruised, and bleeding as her heart was, she felt glad to go; glad to leave the abode of splendid discord, misery, and crime, for any quiet dwelling-place. For she was utterly worn out in body, mind, and spirit.

She no longer desired wealth, rank, admiration, or even love; she only longed for peace; prayed for peace.

She knew a turbulent future threatened her; but she feebly resolved to evade it. She knew that Lord Vincent would sue for a divorce from her; would drag her name before the world and make it a by-word of scorn in those very circles of fashion over which she had once hoped to reign; she would not oppose him, she thought; she had no energy left to meet the overwhelming mass of testimony with which he had prepared to crush her. If her father should come over and defend her cause--well and good. She would let him do it; but as for her, she would go away, and seek peace.

You see, Claudia was in a very different mood of mind from that of the night previous, which had inspired her with such royal dignity and heroic courage to withstand and awe her accusers.

There had come the natural reaction from high excitement, and feats which had appeared easy, in the hour of her exalted indignation, seemed now impossible. She could now no more go to the American minister, and tell him her story, and claim his assistance, than she could have run into a burning fire. But, thank Heaven, she could go from the castle.

She rang her bell a third time, and more sharply than before. After a few minutes it was answered by the housekeeper, who entered with her customary respectful courtesy.

"She has not heard of last night's scandal," thought Claudia, as she noticed the dame's unaltered manner.

"I have rung three times, Mrs. Murdock. Why has not my maid come up?" she inquired.

"Indeed, me leddy, I dinna ken. I ha' na seen the lass the morn,"

answered the woman.

"What! You do not mean to say that Sally has not made her appearance this morning?"

"Indeed and she ha' na, me leddy."

"Mrs. Murdock, pray go at once to her room and see if she is there."

The housekeeper went away; and after an absence of fifteen minutes returned to say that Sally was not in her room.

"But I dinna think she is far awa', me leddy; because her bed is all tumbled as if she was just out of it. And her shoes and clothes are lying there, just as she put them off."

"I will dress and go and make inquiries myself. This house is a place of mysterious disappearances. I wonder if the beach below is of quicksand, and does it swallow people up alive?"

"I dinna ken, me leddy," gravely answered the dame.

"Mrs. Murdock, can you help me to dress?"

"Surely, me leddy," said the housekeeper, approaching Claudia with so much respectful affection that the unhappy lady said once more to herself:

"She knows nothing of last night's work."