self," she answered wildly. "That is the best way
out, Paul! I am fated to bring nothing but evil upon every one with
whom I come in contact. Ah, leave me, Paul, and let me meet my fate,
and save yourself!"

Again I pleaded, and she did not respond. It was the safety of us two,
and her father's life assured, against a miserable fate for her, and I
knew not what for me, though I thought Leroux would give me little
shrift once I was in his power again.

She was so silent that I thought I had convinced her. I urged her to
her feet. But suddenly I heard a stealthy footfall close at hand,
between the cave and the cataract.

I thought it was Charles Duchaine. I hoped it was Leroux. I placed my
finger on Jacqueline's lips and crept stealthily to the passage,
revolver in hand.

Then, in the gloom, I saw the villainous face of Jean Petitjean looking
into mine, twelve paces away, and in his hand was a revolver, too.

We fired together. But the surprize spoiled his aim, for his bullet
whistled past me. I think my shot struck him somewhere, for he uttered
a yell and began running back along the tunnel as hard as he could.

I followed him, firing as fast as I could reload. But there was a
slight bend in the passage here, and my bullets only struck the walls.
So fortune helped the ruffian, for when I reached the light he was
scrambling across the ledge, and before I could cover him he had
succeeded in disappearing behind the projecting rock on the other side.

So Leroux had already sealed one exit--that by the Old Angel, where the
road led into the main passage. God grant that he had not time to
reach the exit by the mine!

If I made haste! If I made haste! But I would not argue the matter
any further. I ran back at full speed. I reached the cave.

"Jacqueline! Come, come!" I called.

She did not answer.

I ran forward, peering round me in the obscurity. I saw her near the
earth-sacks, lying upon her side. Her eyes were closed, her face as
white as a dead woman's.

White--but her dress was blood-soaked, and there was blood on the sacks
and on the stony floor. It oozed from her side, and her hand was cold
as the rocks, and there was no flutter at her wrist.

The bullet from Jean Petitjean's revolver that missed me must have
penetrated her body.

She lived, for her breast stirred, though so faintly that it seemed as
though all that remained of life were concentrated in the
faint-throbbing heart-bea