t here was his bride. Edwin Urquhart is no common
criminal, Marquis de la Roche-Guyon."

It was hard to make him understand. It was hard to undermine his trust,
step by step, inch by inch, till he found no hope, no shred of doubt to
cling to. But it had to be done. If only to avert worse calamities and
more heart-rending scenes, he must know at once, and before he took
another step in relation to Miss Urquhart, just what her position was,
and to what shame and suffering he was subjecting himself by accepting
her love and pledging his own.

The task was not done till I had shown him this diary of mine, and
related all that had just occurred in the room below. Then, indeed, he
seemed to comprehend his position, and completely crushed and
horror-stricken, subsided into a dreadful silence before me, the lines
of years coming into his face as I watched him, till he became scarcely
recognizable for the lordly and light-hearted cavalier whose dreams of
love I had so fearfully interrupted some half hour or so before. From
this lethargy of despair I did not seek to rouse him. I knew when he had
anything to say he would speak, and till he had faced the situation and
had made up his mind to his duty, I could wait his decision with perfect
confidence in his fine nature and nice sense of honor.

You may, therefore, imagine my feelings when, after a long delay--an
hour at least--he suddenly remarked:

"We have been a proud family. From time immemorial we have held
ourselves aloof from whatever could be thought to stain our honor or
impeach our good name. I cannot drag the unfathomable disgrace of all
these crimes into a record so pure as that of the Roche-Guyon race.
Though I had wished to bestow upon my wife a name and position of which
she could be proud, I must content myself with merely giving her the
comfort of a true heart and such support as can be provided by a loving
but unaccustomed hand."

"Marquis--" I commenced.

But he cut my words short with a firm and determined gesture.

"My name is Louis de Fontaine," he explained. "Henceforth my cousin will
be known as the marquis. It is the least I can do for the old French
honor."

'Twas so simply, so determinedly done that I stood aghast as much at the
serenity of his manner as the act which required such depth of sacrifice
from one of his traditions and rearing.

"Then you continue to consider yourself the suitor of Miss Urquhart," I
stammered. "You will marry her, t