s soon as possible the tragic episodes into which I am
constantly plunged, there is one scene in my life which will not depart
at my will; and that is the sight which met my eyes from the bow of the
small boat in which Dr. Zabriskie and his wife were rowed over to Jersey
on that memorable afternoon.

Though it was by no means late in the day, the sun was already sinking,
and the bright red glare which filled the heavens and shone full upon
the faces of the half-dozen persons before me added much to the tragic
nature of the scene, though we were far from comprehending its full
significance.

The Doctor sat with his wife in the stern, and it was upon their faces
my glance was fixed. The glare shone luridly on his sightless eyeballs,
and as I noticed his unwinking lids I realized as never before what it
was to be blind in the midst of sunshine. Her eyes, on the contrary,
were lowered, but there was a look of hopeless misery in her colorless
face which made her appearance infinitely pathetic, and I felt confident
that if he could only have seen her, he would not have maintained the
cold and unresponsive manner which chilled the words on her lips and
made all advance on her part impossible.

On the seat in front of them sat the Inspector and a doctor, and from
some quarter, possibly from under the Inspector's coat, there came the
monotonous ticking of a small clock, which, I had been told, was to
serve as a target for the blind man's aim.

This ticking was all I heard, though the noise and bustle of a great
traffic was pressing upon us on every side. And I am sure it was all
that she heard, as, with hand pressed to her heart and eyes fixed on the
opposite shore, she waited for the event which was to determine whether
the man she loved was a criminal or only a being afflicted of God, and
worthy of her unceasing care and devotion.

As the sun cast its last scarlet gleam over the water, the boat
grounded, and it fell to my lot to assist Mrs. Zabriskie up the bank.
As I did so, I allowed myself to say: "I am your friend, Mrs.
Zabriskie," and was astonished to see her tremble, and turn toward me
with a look like that of a frightened child.

But there was always this characteristic blending in her countenance of
the childlike and the severe, such as may so often be seen in the faces
of nuns, and beyond an added pang of pity for this beautiful but
afflicted woman, I let the moment pass without giving it the weight it
perhaps