Then, all at once, she was beside me, clasping my arm, and she was pleading with me, her words coming in a flood.

"No, Peter, no--oh, God!--you do not think it--you can't--you mustn't. I was alone--waiting for you, and the hours passed--and you didn't come--and I was nervous and frightened, and full of awful fancies. I thought I heard some one--creeping round the cottage. Once I thought some one peered in at the lattice, and once I thought some one tried the door. And so--because I was frightened, Peter, I took that--that, and held it in my hand, Peter. And while I sat there--it seemed more than ever--that somebody was breathing softly--outside the door. And so, Peter, I couldn't bear it any more--and opened the lattice--and fired --in the air--I swear it was in the air. And I stood there--at the open casement--sick with fear, and trying to pray for you --because I knew he had come back--to kill you, Peter, and, while I prayed, I heard another shot--not close, but faint--like the snapping of a twig, Peter--and I ran out--and--oh, Peter!--that is all--but you believe--oh!--you believe, don't you, Peter?"

While she spoke, I had slipped the pistol into my pocket, and now I held out my hands to her, and drew her near, and gazed into the troubled depths of her eyes.

"Charmian!" said I, "Charmian--I love you! and God forbid that I should ever doubt you any more."

So, with a sigh, she sank in my embrace, her arms crept about my neck, and our lips met, and clung together. But even then--while I looked upon her beauty, while the contact of her lips thrilled through me--even then, in any mind, I saw the murderous pistol in her hand--as I had seen it months ago. Indeed, it almost seemed that she divined my thought, for she drew swiftly back, and looked up at me with haggard eyes.

"Peter?" she whispered, "what is it--what is it?"

"Oh, Charmian!" said I, over and over again, "I love you--I love you." And I kissed her appealing eyes, and stayed her questioning lips with my kisses. "I love you more than my life--more than honor--more than my soul; and, because I so love you--to-night you must leave me--"

"Leave you?--ah no, Peter--no--no, I am your wife--I must stay with you--to suffer and share your troubles and dangers--it is my right--my privilege. Let us go away together, now--anywhere --anywhere, only let us be together--my--husband."

"Don't!" I cried, "don't! Do you think it is so easy to remain here without you--to lose you so soon--so very soon? If I only loved you a little less! Ah! don't you see--before the week is out, my description will be all over England; we should be caught, and you would have to stand beside me in a court of justice, and face the shame of it--"

"Dear love!--it would be my pride--my pride, Peter, to face them all--to clasp this dear hand in mine--"

"Never!" I cried, clenching my fists; "never! You must leave me; no one must know Charmian Brown ever existed--you must go!"

"Hush!" she whispered, clasping me tighter, "listen--some one is coming!" Away to the right, we could hear the leaves rustling, as though a strong wind passed through them; a light flickered, went out, flickered again, and a voice hailed faintly:

"Hallo!"

"Come," said Charmian, clasping my hand, "let us go and meet him."

"No, Charmian, no--I must see this man--alone. You must leave here, to-night-now. You can catch the London Mail at the cross roads. Go to Blackheath--to Sir Richard Anstruther--he is my friend--tell him everything--"

She was down at my feet, and had caught my hand to her bosom.

"I can't!" she cried, "I can't go--and leave you here alone. I have loved you so--from the very first, and it seems that each day my love has grown until it is part of me. Oh, Peter!--don't send me away from you--it will kill me, I think--"

"Better that than the shame of a prison!" I exclaimed, and, while I spoke, I lifted her in my arms. "Oh!--I am proud--proud to have won such a love as yours--let me try to be worthy of it.

Good-by, my beloved!" and so I kissed her, and would have turned away, but her arms clung about me.

"Oh, Peter!" she sobbed, "if you must go--if you will go, call me--your wife--just once, Peter."

The hovering light was much nearer now, and the rustle of leaves louder, as I stooped above her cold hands, and kissed their trembling fingers.

"Some day," said I, "some day, if there is a just God in heaven, we shall meet again; perhaps soon, perhaps late. Until then, let us dream of that glorious, golden some day, but now--farewell, oh, beloved wife!"

With a broken cry, she drew my head down upon her breast, and clasped it there, while her tears mingled with her kisses, and so--crying my name, she turned, and was lost among the leaves.

CHAPTER XLIII

HOW I SET OUT TO FACE MY DESTINY

The pallid moon shone down pitilessly upon the dead, white face that stared up at me through its grime and blood, with the same half-tolerant, half-amused contempt of me that it had worn in life; the drawn lips seemed to mock me, and the clenched fists to defy me still; so that I shivered, and turned to watch the oncoming light that danced like a will-o'-the-wisp among the shadows. Presently it stopped, and a voice hailed once more:

"Hallo!"

"Hallo!" I called back; "this way--this way!" In a little while I saw the figure of a man whom I at once recognized as the one-time Postilion, bearing the lanthorn of a chaise, and, as he approached, it struck me that this meeting was very much like our first, save for him who lay in the shadows, staring up at me with unwinking eyes.

"So ho!" exclaimed the Postilion as he came up, raising his lanthorn that he might view me the better; "it's you again, is it?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"Well, I don't like it," he grumbled, "a-meeting of each other again like this, in this 'ere ghashly place--no, I don't like it --too much like last time to be nat'ral, and, as you know, I can't abide onnat'ralness. If I was to ax you where my master was, like as not you'd tell me 'e was--"

"Here!" said I, and, moving aside, pointed to the shadow.

The Postilion stepped nearer, lowering his lanthorzs. then staggered blindly backward.

"Lord!" he whimpered, "Lord love me!" and stood staring, with dropped jaw.

"Where is your chaise?"

"Up yonder--yonder--in the lane," he mumbled, his eyes still fixed.

"Then help me to carry him there."

"No, no--I dursn't touch it--I can't--not me--not me!"

"I think you will," said I, and took the pistol from my pocket.

"Ain't one enough for to-night?" he muttered; "put it away--I'll come--I'll do it--put it away." So I dropped the weapon back into my pocket while the Postilion, shivering violently, stooped with me above the inanimate figure, and, with our limp burden between us, we staggered and stumbled up the path, and along the lane to where stood a light traveling chaise.

"'E ain't likely to come to this time, I'm thinkin'!" said the Postilion, mopping the sweat from his brow and grinning with pallid lips, after we had got our burden into the vehicle; "no, 'e ain't likely to wake up no more, nor yet 'curse my 'ead off'

--this side o' Jordan."

"No," I answered, beginning to unwind my neckcloth.

"Nor it ain't no good to go a-bandagin' and a-bindin' of 'im up --like you did last time."

"No," said I; "no." And stepping into the chaise, I muffled that disfigured face in my neckcloth; having done which, I closed the door.

"What now?" inquired the Postilion.

"Now you can drive us to Cranbrook."

"What--be you a-comin' too?"

"Yes," I nodded; "yes, I am coming too."