“Have you, then, no wish to live, Hermione?” “None!” she replied, and the despair on her face was plainly written. He knew that she spoke the truth. “It is an awful doom,” he said, rather to himself than to her--“a terrible doom! Would to Heaven I could save you from it. Are you ill, Hermione?” For the last remnant of color had faded from her lips, even the light left her eyes. “Are you ill?” he repeated. “Speak to me, Hermione.” “No; I am not ill. It was only a strange fluttering here at my heart, as though it had stopped beating. Kenelm, help me to realize my doom!” He shuddered as she asked the question: “Tell me in plain words what I have to bear.” “It is too horrible, Hermione. I cannot look at you and do it.” “Then turn your eyes from me, but tell me--let me know.” “If it be true that you have committed this crime you will be tried for it.” “Tried--where--tell me all about it, Kenelm, I am so ignorant.” “You will be taken from here to Lowestone Prison to await your trial on the charge of willful murder. Hermione, you are ill and are hiding it from me.” She laughed with scornful despair. “Can you care for my being ill when you have hunted me down to death?” she said. “How absurd that seems, Kenelm. I am not ill, but there is a strange feeling at my heart as though my strength were failing. It will not hurt me--go on! I shall be tried at Lowestone. Can I take the children, or must I say good-by to them forever?” “You cannot take them, of course, Hermione. You can employ the best counsel in England; you can have the best defense.” “I shall make no defense; I shall say nothing, but plead guilty, guilty of all. After that, what next?” “Your sentence,” he replied, and the words died away on his lips. “What will it be?” she asked. “I cannot tell. My God! am I dreaming? Is it you, Hermione, asking me these terrible questions as though they concerned any other rather than yourself? I dare not think what it will be--the bare thought of you, a delicate, high-bred, gentle woman undergoing so shameful a death fills me with horror too great for words. I will not believe you did it,” he cried passionately, his face flushing with sudden hope. “And I tell you,” she replied, with the same air of weariness and dejection, “that I am guilty of it all, and that I shall plead guilty before any judge in England. The law may do its worst to me; it can inflict no torture worse than life. I suppose, though, you will not tell me so, Kenelm, that I must die for the crime.” He turned from her with a low moan. “I thought my heart was harder,” he said. “I can bear no more, Hermione.” “I have but one more question to ask. When will your detective arrive?” “To-morrow,” he replied. “I am going, Hermione. I can bear no more.” “You will not tell my father nor my mother until after I am gone, Kenelm?” “I will not, and how I shall tell them only God knows.” The next moment he had gone, leaving her alone.