s--looks at the still
white face beneath him--and places his hand on Frank's heart. It still
beats feebly. Give him his share of the food and fuel still stored in
the boat, and Frank may live through it. Leave him neglected where he
lies, and his death is a question of hours--perhaps minutes; who knows?

Richard Wardour lifts the sleeper's head and rests it against the cavern
side. He goes to the boat, and returns with a billet of wood. He
stoops to place the wood on the fire--and stops. Frank is dreaming,
and murmuring in his dream. A woman's name passes his lips. Frank is in
England again--at the ball--whispering to Clara the confession of his
love.

Over Richard Wardour's face there passes the shadow of a deadly thought.
He rises from the fire; he takes the wood back to the boat. His iron
strength is shaken, but it still holds out. They are drifting nearer and
nearer to the open sea. He can launch the boat without help; he can take
the food and the fuel with him. The sleeper on the iceberg is the man
who has robbed him of Clara--who has wrecked the hope and the happiness
of his life. Leave the man in his sleep, and let him die!

So the tempter whispers. Richard Wardour tries his strength on the boat.
It moves: he has got it under control. He stops, and looks round. Beyond
him is the open sea. Beneath him is the man who has robbed him of Clara.
The shadow of the deadly thought grows and darkens over his face. He
waits with his hands on the boat--waits and thinks.

The iceberg drifts slowly--over the black water; through the ashy light.
Minute by minute, the dying fire sinks. Minute by minute, the deathly
cold creeps nearer to the sleeping man. And still Richard Wardour
waits--waits and thinks.

Fourth Scene--The Garden.

Chapter 13.

The spring has come. The air of the April night just lifts the leaves
of the sleeping flowers. The moon is queen in the cloudless and starless
sky. The stillness of the midnight hour is abroad, over land and over
sea.

In a villa on the westward shore of the Isle of Wight, the glass doors
which lead from the drawing-room to the garden are yet open. The shaded
lamp yet burns on the table. A lady sits by the lamp, reading. From time
to time she looks out into the garden, and sees the white-robed figure
of a young girl pacing slowly to and fro in the soft brightness of the
moonlight on the lawn. Sorrow and suspense have set their mark on the
lady. Not rivals only, but f