“I will obey you,” he said, and, without looking at her face, he quitted the room. What passed there only God and herself knew. Two hours passed before he returned, and he found her where he had left her, the sweet face white and exhausted, but with a look of resignation upon it. “You have returned,” she said, “and I ought to tremble, for in you I see the messenger of doom and death. Kenelm, I have something to tell you!” He looked from the trembling hands to the pale face. “I am ready to hear,” he replied. “Do not waste time in making excuses for your husband, Hermione; it is labor in vain.” A strange, wan smile came to her lips. “I have nothing to excuse in him,” she said, gently, “for that which I have to tell you does not touch him. When you hear it you may fling me down and trample the life from me if you will.” “Talk reasonably, Hermione; then I may understand you.” She went to the table where the box containing that terrible evidence lay. She opened it and took from it a long, slender dagger, with its rusty stain. “You are right,” she said, in a low, dreary voice. “That was the instrument with which the deed was done, and this belonged to me.” “To you!” he cried. “What do you mean, Hermione?” “It was given to me years ago by my cousin, who had been traveling in Greece. God grant that I may not go mad. He gave it to me one summer evening like this. My mother said it was a foolish present. My father bade me lock it away, but my cousin told me it was a great curiosity; that in ancient times the Grecian ladies wore such deadly toys fastened to their girdles.” “Why do you tell me this now?” he asked. She bent down and whispered something to him that made his face grow pale with horror, while he sprang from her as though the air she breathed and the words she spoke were poison. CHAPTER XLVIII. HOW WILL IT END? “You are mad, Hermione,” cried Kenelm Eyrle. “You cannot mean it; it is not true.” “It is true,” she replied; “that dagger was mine, and I--hear me, Kenelm Eyrle--I confess it, I did the deed. I, and I alone, am guilty!” “My God!” he cried, “it is surely impossible. Those hands of yours are surely not stained with crimes so abhorrent.” “I am guilty,” she said, “and I alone. Do your worst to me now.” “I refuse to believe you. I cannot credit it. You to do such a deed.” “Yes,” she replied, and there was no hesitation, nor fear in her voice, “I did it, Kenelm; I am guilty.” He stood in silence, his emotion too great for words. This gentle, gracious, lovely lady a murderess! Ronald innocent after all? She, whom he had looked upon as pure and peerless, guilty of this monstrous crime? “I cannot believe it,” he repeated. “Yes; it is true, I would not have told you had you promised to let the dread memory of it die. I would not have mentioned it if you had promised to--to spare my husband. Guilty as I am, I dare not double my guilt by letting him die for what was my crime.”