He was looking up into those eyes, reading all their message of pity and tenderness, till in his own there dawned something less than despair. "Thou knowest, Gabrielle?" he whispered, and for answer she bent, kissing the trembling lips. How fast rushed the voiceless chaos in his brain! Whirling faces long dead looked into his as they passed, voices were crying in his ears of the memories of old sins; and yet, through the mists and vanishing forms those tender eyes looked down into his; and beyond, far away in the distance, a Voice Which had calmed that other tempest of wind and waves called softly his name. A lost soul!—a lost soul! What use was it to call? He had sinned too deeply for aught but damnation, swift and terrible, damnation to which he must turn his shuddering eyes as the hand of Death claimed him. And yet, those eyes which looked into his still spoke their message of hope. She, this angel of purity and goodness, knew all his guilty secrets, and yet—she loved him; her kiss of tender love and forgiveness still lingered on his parched lips. Was it then so impossible that he should find a forgiveness greater than that of earth? His eyes wandered involuntarily from the face above him to the pictured image of a Figure,—a Figure thorn-crowned, suffering, dying,—a Figure of Love incarnate, with wide-stretched Arms which seemed to invite him to Their embrace. The voice of Father Ambrose rose clearer and sweeter, but it was not the Latin prayers which held the dying man’s attention, but a Voice, more sweet, more clear than all, which seemed to soothe the tempest of his soul. Then with a lightning flash another memory stole upon him. Gwennola de Mereac,—the girl he had tried to wrong more cruelly than he had her brother, the innocent girl who perhaps had already suffered the last agony of death through his sin and treachery. "Gwennola?" he whispered faintly, and the peace which had stolen over him seemed for the moment shaken to its foundation as he listened for the answer. It was Diane who replied. Slipping from Yvon’s side, she knelt beside him, looking gladly into his eyes. "She is safe," she whispered, with a happy sob. which told the tale of the great joy that deliverance had brought to her; "she is safe!" Guillaume de Coray’s eyes closed. Yes! she was safe, and the golden gates of mercy which he had fancied to see slowly opening were not shut against him by reason of this deadly sin. And so the mocking, cruel voices sank slowly to rest—those voices which cried in his ears that terrible sentence of eternal death. And though the bodily pains grew ever more agonizing, he could smile once more into the beautiful face so close to his. "Forgiven?" he whispered in a faint, yet awestruck tone, whilst with a last effort he strove to clasp his hands in prayer. "Forgiven?"