with a flash
of fire, a thousand lights darted out, and then--then came utter
blackness--a vague sensation of being caught up and carried, of
plunging down--down--

CHAPTER XI. AND LAST.

TELLS HOW AT LAST I FOUND MY REVENGE AND THE GREAT RUBY.

"Speak--speak to me! Oh, look up and tell me you are not dead!"

Down through the misty defiles and dark gates of the Valley of the
Shadow of Death came these words faintly as though spoken far away.
So distant did they seem that my eyes opened with vague expectation
of another world; opened and then wearily closed again.

For at first they stared into a heaven of dull grey, with but a
shadow between them and colourless space. Then they opened once
more, and the shadow caught their attention. What was it? Who was
I, and how came I to be staring upward so? I let the problem be and
fell back into the easeful lap of unconsciousness.

Then the voice spoke again. "He is living yet," it said. "Oh, if he
would but speak!"

This time I saw more distinctly. Two eyes were looking into mine--a
woman's eyes. Where had I seen that face before? Surely I had known
it once, in some other world. Then somehow over my weary mind stole
the knowledge that this was Mrs. Luttrell--or was it Claire?
No, Claire was dead. "Claire--dead," I seemed to repeat to myself;
but how dead or where I could not recall. "Claire--dead;" then this
must be her mother, and I, Jasper Trenoweth, was lying here with
Claire's mother bending over me. How came we so? What had happened,
that--and once more the shadow of oblivion swept down and enfolded
me.

She was still there, kneeling beside me, chafing my hands and every
now and then speaking words of tender solicitude. How white her hair
was! It used not to be so white as this. And where was I lying?
In a boat? How my head was aching!

Then remembrance came back. Strange to tell, it began with Claire's
death in the theatre, and thence led downwards in broken and
interrupted train until Colliver's face suddenly started up before
me, and I knew all.

I raised myself on my elbow. My brain was throbbing intolerably, and
every pulsation seemed to shoot fire into my temples. Also other
bands of fire were clasped about my arms and wrists. So acutely did
they burn that I fell back with a low moan and looked helplessly at
Mrs. Luttrell.

Although it had been snowing, her bonnet was thrust back from her
face and hung by its ribbons which