s temper.

"D--n you!" he howled out, like a madman, "do you dare to triumph?" and,
tearing off his glove, he struck Livingstone on the cheek with it a
sharp blow.

A great shudder swept through every fibre of the maimed giant's frame,
in which sensation lingered still; the blood surged up to his forehead
and ebbed again instantly, leaving even the lips deathly white; he
raised his hand quickly, but it was only to warn me back; for, mild and
peaceable as I am, I leaped up then, as savage as Cain. With that hand
he caught Brandon's wrist. The latter stood with his eyes cast down,
sullenly--already, I am sure, horror at the act of foul cowardice into
which his passion had driven him was creeping over him--he did not try
to disengage himself. Had he done so, thrice his strength would not have
set him free.

"I thank God, from my heart," Guy said, very slowly and steadily, "that,
if I meet your sister hereafter, I shall not shrink before her, for I
believe all I promised her has been kept. Listen! you would feel shame
to your life's end thinking that you had struck a helpless, dying
cripple. It is not so. You don't know what you risked. You were within
arm's-length, and at close quarters I could be dangerous still. Look."

He took up a small silver cup that lay near, and crushed it flat between
his fingers.

There was silence then; only Brandon's breath was heard, drawn hard and
irregularly, as if he was trying to throw off a weight from his chest.

Guy looked up at him, and said very gently, holding out his hand, "Once
more, forgive me."

Cyril answered in a thick, smothered voice,

"I will not take your hand. I will never forgive you. But I forgive
Constance; for--I understand her now."

He turned on his heel, and left the room without another word, still
with his head bent down, as if in thought. I gazed after him till the
door shut softly. Then I looked round at Guy. His head had fallen back,
and the features looked so drawn and changed that I cried out, thinking
he was dead. It was only a long, long swoon.

Just another scene, and my tale is told.

I was reading in Guy's room one evening. He had not spoken for some
time, and I fancied he was asleep. Suddenly he called to me,

"Frank, come here--nearer. I have several things to say to you, and I
feel I must make haste. No, don't call any one. I said farewell to my
mother yesterday, and we must spare her all we can."

In the presence of that sublime self-