w, "Cynthia, my child, I
am about to die."

She knew both from Stephen and from the leech that this was far from
being his condition. Nevertheless her filial piety was at that moment a
touching sight. She smoothed his pillows with a gentle grace that was
in itself a soothing caress, even as her soft sympathetic voice was
a caress. She took his hand, and spoke to him endearingly, seeking to
relieve the sombre mood whose prey he was become, assuring him that the
leech had told her his danger was none so imminent, and that with quiet
and a little care he would be up and about again ere many days were
sped. But Gregory rejected hopelessly all efforts at consolation.

"I am on my death-bed, Cynthia," he insisted, "and when I am gone I know
not whom there may be to cheer and comfort your lot in life. Your lover
is away on an errand of Joseph's, and it may well betide that he will
never again cross the threshold of Castle Marleigh. Unnatural though I
may seem, sweetheart, my dying wish is that this may be so."

She looked up in some surprise.

"Father, if that be all that grieves you, I can reassure you. I do not
love Kenneth."

"You apprehend me amiss," said he tartly. "Do you recall the story of
Sir Crispin Galliard's life that you had from Kenneth on the night of
Joseph's return?" His voice shook as he put the question.

"Why, yes. I am not like to forget it, and nightly do I pray," she went
on, her tongue outrunning discretion and betraying her feelings
for Galliard, "that God may punish those murderers who wrecked his
existence."

"Hush, girl," he whispered in a quavering voice. "You know not what you
say."

"Indeed I do; and as there is a just God my prayer shall be answered."

"Cynthia," he wailed. His eyes were wild, and the hand that rested in
hers trembled violently. "Do you know that it is against your father and
your father's brother that you invoke God's vengeance?"

She had been kneeling at his bedside; but now, when he pronounced those
words, she rose slowly and stood silent for a spell, her eyes seeking
his with an awful look that he dared not meet. At last:

"Oh, you rave," she protested, "it is the fever."

"Nay, child, my mind is clear, and what I have said is true."

"True?" she echoed, no louder than a whisper, and her eyes grew round
with horror. "True that you and my uncle are the butchers who slew their
cousin, this man's wife, and sought to murder him as well--leaving him
for dead? True