th's name, the Italian doctor's, rose to his lips.
Then, after a pause, he said suddenly:

"The Duke is dead. She will come now."

There was a long silence. He was waiting, listening.

The Bishop and Magdalen held their breath. Fay knew at last what it is
to fail another. She had failed Michael. Wentworth had failed her.

"Fay!" Michael said, "come soon."

She had to bear it, the waiting, the faltered anguish, the suspense, the
faint reiterated call to deaf ears.

The Bishop got up from his knees beside Michael, and motioned Fay to
take his place. She went timidly to the low couch and knelt down by it.

"Speak to him," said the Bishop sternly.

"Michael!" she said.

He knew her. All other voices had gone from him, but hers he knew. All
other faces had faded from him, but hers he knew. He looked full at her.
Love stronger than death shone in his eyes.

"Fay," he said in an awed voice--"at last."

She had come to release him, after the Duke's death, as he knew she
would.

She leaned her white cheek a moment against his in speechless
self-abasement.

He whispered to her.

"Have I served you?"

She whispered back, "Yes."

He whispered again, "Do you still love me?" The words were quite
inaudible.

Again she said, "Yes."

Again a movement of the lips, but no sound.

He looked at her with radiant questioning eyes.

Again she murmured, "Yes."

It had to be like that. He had always known that this moment had to
come. Had he not foreseen it in some forgotten dream?

A great trembling laid hold on Michael, and then a stillness of
exceeding joy.

In the silence the cathedral bells chimed out suddenly for early
service. The sound of the bells came faintly to him as across wide
water, the river of death widening as it nears the sea. It was all part
of his dream. The bells of Venice were rejoicing with him, in this his
blessed hour.

He was freed at last, free as he had never been, free as the seagull
seen through the bars that could no longer keep him back. Useless bars,
why had he let them hold him so long? He was out and away, sailing over
the sheening water in a boat with an orange sail; in a boat like a
butterfly with spread wings; sailing away, past the floating islands,
past that pale beautiful grief of sea lavender--he laughed to see it
shine so beautiful--sailing away into a pearly morning, under a luminous
sky.

The prison was far away now. Left behind. There was a great knocking at
its g