"Dead! nay!" exclaimed the chaplain eagerly, as though the very word "death" suddenly awoke in him a keen consciousness of the contrast which after all lay betwixt that total removal of the "light of the eyes" of the stricken prophet and that tender dealing of Providence with himself which still left his life gladdened with the hope of a continual holy friendship, and the blessed near presence of her he loved. "Dead? No, Jeremy; but," and the sudden light which had illumined his face died out again, "doomed--doomed to bear the curse of her miserable forefathers--to expiate in her tender soul and body the sins of theirs--the sins with which _my_ forefather for ever cursed hers, and which I would fain bear ten thousand-fold to save her one pang! Surely it is for me to suffer--not for her the innocent victim; yet her own load none can bear but herself, though the share which falls to each of us is a bitter one! Yet that I may be strong to bury mine own within my bosom, and bear what I may of hers upon my own shoulders, must I needs watch and fast alone here in the desert, and I pray you leave me, dear Jeremy! Go below to the farm, and seek, an you will, to cheer her by your presence, for I see her no more till we meet on our wedding morning, four days hence, in the hillside church at Cwmfelin, there to plight an eternal troth of the soul, and to partake together of that most Holy Sacrament, which shall surely strengthen us in the putting away of our earthly dreams." "Nay, I will not leave you, Percival!" cried his friend. "You are worn and faint, and you shall tarry no longer thus alone in your watch and fast. I will fast and pray with you! You shall not banish from your side the friend who loves you more than a brother, and I will share your lonely vigil--at a distance an you will--but leave you I will not!" And with boylike impulsiveness he flung his arms round Percival's neck and kissed him. The young chaplain clung to him silently for a moment; then the unnatural tension of his nerves gave way and he burst into tears. "Percival," said his friend, as he gently led him to a seat on the mossy turf, "in my own still new-found marriage-joy my heart shrinks from the thought of your bitter pain, and words of comfort from my lips, which have not tasted your sorrow, seem to me most cruelly presumptuous. Yet hear the words of one whose name you greatly love and honour----" "Jeremy," interrupted Percival, "the bitterness lies in the very _goodness_ of the gift that is withdrawn! It is, I doubt not, hard to give up a cherished sin, but how much harder--ten thousand-fold harder--is it to give up that which is in itself right, and good, and desirable! In that lies the very essence of the bitterness! What could I have offered to God more pure and holy than that life we were about to offer Him together in our mutual love and service? In sacrificing to Him a sinful affection I could have seen His justice but now----"