im who's
gone--your great favourite, Charley Clancy. I take it, you've heard of
his death; and possibly a report, that some one killed him. Both
stories are true; and, telling you so, I may add, no one knows better
than myself; since 'twas I sent the gentleman to kingdom come--Richard
Darke."

On making the fearful confession, and in boastful emphasis, he bends
lower to observe its effect. Not in her face, still covered with the
serape, but her form, in which he can perceive a tremor from head to
foot. She shudders, and not strange, as she thinks:--

"He murdered _him_. He may intend the same with _me_. I care not now."

Again the voice of the self-accused assassin:

"You know me now?"

She is silent as ever, and once more motionless; the convulsive spasm
having passed. Even the beating of her heart seems stilled.

Is she dead? Has his fell speech slain her? In reality it would appear
so.

"Ah, well;" he says, "you won't recognise me? Perhaps you will after
seeing my face. Sight is the sharpest of the senses, and the most
reliable. You shall no longer be deprived of it. Let me take you to
the light."

Lifting, he carries her out to where the moonbeams meet the tree's
shadow, and there lays her along. Then dropping to his knees, he draws
out something that glistens. Two months before he stooped over the
prostrate form of her lover, holding a photograph before his eyes--her
own portrait. In her's he is about to brandish a knife!

One seeing him in this attitude would suppose he intended burying its
blade in her breast. Instead, he slits open the serape in front of her
face, tossing the severed edges back beyond her cheeks.

Her features exposed to the light, show wan and woeful; withal, lovely
as ever; piquant in their pale beauty, like those of some rebellious nun
hating the hood, discontented with cloister and convent.

As she sees him stooping beside, with blade uplifted, she feels sure he
designs killing her. But she neither shrinks, nor shudders now. She
even wishes him to end her agony with a blow. Were the knife in her own
hand, she would herself give it.

It is not his intention to harm her that way. Words are the weapons by
which he intends torturing her. With these he will lacerate her heart
to its core.

For he is thinking of the time when he threw himself at her feet, and
poured forth his soul in passionate entreaty, only to have his passion
spurned, and his pride humilia