iveted upon a small note that he held in his shaking fingers; they
glittered strangely, but there was no meaning or expression in their
fixed stare.

"In the name of God, what has happened?" Ralph asked.

Guy's lips worked and moved, but no sound came from them, except an
irregular catching of the breath and a gasping rattle in the throat.

Mohun took the note from his hand without his seeming to be aware of it,
and read it through. These were the words:

"I have tried very hard to persuade myself that you never received the
letter I wrote to you two months ago. I think you would have answered
it, for you would know how much I must have suffered before my pride
broke down so utterly. Yet I could not have risked being scorned a
second time if I had not learned yesterday that my life must now be
reckoned by weeks, if not by days. I do not know if I shall be allowed
to see you if you come. But you will come; will you not? Dear, dear Guy,
I can not die as I ought to do, contentedly, unless I speak to you once
again. In spite of all, I will sign my last letter

"Your own CONSTANCE BRANDON."

It was dated Ventnor.

Hard and cynical as he was, Mohun was thoroughly shocked and grieved;
but the urgency of the crisis brought back the prompt decision of
thought and purpose that were habitual to the trained soldier. He sprang
to his feet, alert and ready for action, as he would have done in the
old times, from his bivouac, to meet a night-surprise of the wild
Hungarians.

"Get every thing ready," he said to the servant, who entered at that
moment; "your master is going to England immediately. The train starts
for Havre at two o'clock. You will catch the night-boat for
Southampton."

When the man had left the room he turned to Guy: "Rouse yourself, man!
There is all a lifetime for remorse, but only a few hours for the little
amends you can make. You will be at Ventnor to-morrow; and mind--you
_must_ see her, whatever difficulties may be thrown in your way. You
won't lose your temper if you meet her brother? Ah! I see you are not
listening."

Then Livingstone spoke for the first time, in a hoarse, grating
whisper, articulating the words one by one with difficulty.

"I never dreamed of this. I did not mean to kill her."

Mohun knew his friend too well to attempt consolation or sympathy, even
if these had not been foreign to his own nature; so he answered
deliberately and coldly,

"Of having broug