I lay on my death-bed."

"I will never seek you out and bring you to shame," he said; "I promise
it faithfully, by my love for you. As I hope ever to obtain pardon, I
promise it."

"Then leave me," she cried; "I can bear this no longer. Good-by,
Roland."

They were still some paces apart, he with his shaggy mountain cap in his
hand standing respectfully at a distance, and she, sitting by the low,
open hearth with her white, quiet face turned toward him. All the
village might have witnessed their interview through the uncurtained
windows. Slowly, almost mechanically, Felicita left her seat and
advanced toward him with an outstretched hand. It was cold as ice as he
seized it eagerly in his own; the hand of the dead man could not have
been colder or more lifeless. He held it fast in a hard, unconscious
grip.

"Good-by, my wife," he said; "God bless and keep you!"

"Is there any God?" she sobbed.

But there was a sound at the door, the handle was being turned, and they
fell apart guiltily. A maid entered to tell Madame her chamber was
prepared, and without another word Felicita walked quickly from the
salon, leaving him alone.

He caught a glimpse of her again the next morning as she came
down-stairs and entered the little carriage which was to take her down
to Stansstad in time to catch the boat to Lucerne. She was starting
early, before it was fairly dawn, and he saw her only by the dim light
of lamps, which burned but feebly in the chilly damp of the autumn
atmosphere. For a little distance he followed the sound of the carriage
wheels, but he arrested his own footsteps. For what good was it to
pursue one whom he must never find again? She was gone from him forever.
He was a young man yet, and she still younger. But for his folly and
crime a long and prosperous life might have stretched before them, each
year knitting their hearts and souls more closely together; and he had
forfeited all. He turned back up the valley broken-hearted.

Later in the day he stood beside the grave of the man who was bearing
away his name from disgrace. The funeral had been hurried on, and the
stranger was buried in a neglected part of the churchyard, being
friendless and a heretic. It was quickly done, and when the few persons
who had taken part in it were dispersed, Roland Sefton lingered alone
beside the desolate grave.

CHAPTER XVII.

WAITING FOR THE NEWS.

Felicita hurried homeward night and day without stopping, as