strangely accentuated by
the emotions that warred within her. For a minute neither of them
spoke.

"I can see what you would have me see," she said at last, raising her
head. "It belongs to that world in which I have now no part, Senior.
No part at all. And it brings us no nearer to the message with which
you are charged."

"Your pardon," said O'Neill. "It is a part of my message. And the
rest is quickly told. It is Regnault's request, his prayer to you,
that you will come to him, to your husband."

"Ah!" The constraint upon her features broke like ice under a quick
sun. "I guessed it. I--to come to him! You should be his friend
indeed, to be the bearer of such a message to me."

Her dark eyes, suddenly splendid, flashed at him with strong anger.
The whole woman was transformed; she sat up in her chair, and her
breast swelled. O'Neill saw before him the Lola of twenty years
before.

He held up one hand to stay her.

"I should be his friend, as you say," he told her. "But he knows that
it is not so. I came for two reasons: because now is not the time to
be discriminating in my service to him, and also because I am glad to
help him to do right. I will take back what answer you please,
Senora, for I came here with no great hopes; but still I am glad I
came, for the second reason."

"Help him to do right!" She repeated the words in a manner of
perplexity. "What is it you mean to do right?"

O'Neill had a moment's clear insight into the aspects of his task
which made him unfit for it. "Eight" was a term that puzzled his
auditor.

"Senora," he answered gravely, "his passions are burned out. He is
too sick a man to do evil. It is late, no doubt, and very late; but
his mood is not to die as he has lived. He asks, not for those who
would come at a word, but for his wife. And I am glad to be the
bearer of that message even if I carry back a curse for an answer."

It was not in O'Neill to know how well and deftly Regnault had chosen
his messenger. His lean, brown face and his earnestness were having
their effect.

The Senora bent her keen gaze on him again.

"Ah," she cried, with a sort of bitterness, "he regrets, eh? He
repents?" She laughed shortly.

"I do not think so," answered O'Neill.

"No?" She considered him anew. "Tell me,"--she leaned forward in a
sudden eagerness--"why does he ask for me? If he is sober and
composed for death, why--why does he ask for me?"

O'Neill made a gesture of helplessness. "