No answer, no sound to break the terrible silence, save the song of the birds and the murmur of the western wind; no sound save one, and that was the most pitiful of all--the sobbing of a strong man, for Kenelm Eyrle had bent his head over that mute witness of terrible murder and wept aloud. “I may weep,” he said, at last. “My God, I may weep for the man I called friend! Weep for my murdered love, and for the man who slew her! Friend and brother I called him, and he killed her!” “There may be some mistake,” she whispered. The white lips could scarcely frame the words. “There is none,” he replied. “Ronald Alden slew his wife and has hidden the proof of his crime here.” “It cannot be!” she repeated, in a hoarse whisper. “It is so; my own instinct tells me I have tracked the murderer at last!” She raised her white face to him in an agony of entreaty that knew no words. “You will not, you cannot, betray him!” she said. “You cannot, Kenelm Eyrle! He is your friend. You could not be so false to friendship. He is your best-trusted, best-loved.” “Hush!” he said, sternly. “If the child who slept in my bosom--if the brother who shared my life--had done this deed, I would denounce him. I would show him no more mercy than I would to the man who has deceived you and has deceived me.” CHAPTER XLVII. A WIFE’S LOVE. “Kenelm,” said Lady Alden, raising her earnest eyes and clasping her hands, “you cannot be cruel; you cannot forget every tie that binds you to Ronald. Oh, why, my God! why did I bring that fatal box here? You cannot forget all that Ronald was to you. He left his wife and children in your charge, and you would rob them of all their natural protectors--of husband and father! Oh, Kenelm! you must not do it. No man could live and be so cruel.” “I must do justice,” he said, firmly. “What do you call justice?” she cried, wringing her hands. “I shall deliver the man who did the deed to the laws of his country, and they shall punish him for the murder done.” Her face grew ghastly pale as she listened. It was terrible to gaze upon, awful to see. Great drops of agony gathered on the white brow. He turned his face away lest he should see the torture he was bound to inflict. She knelt at his feet, and raised her hands as though she were supplicating the mightiest power. “Kenelm, have pity on me if you will not on him! Have mercy on me; if you injure him you kill me. You can only reach him through my heart. See, dear,” she continued, with a low sob, “if you stood here, and you took deadly aim at him I would fling myself before him and die first. You should walk over me dead before you touched him! All my life is bound up in his. I live in him. My soul is one with his. Oh, Kenelm! for God’s dear sake, have pity and spare!” But he never even turned his face toward her.