“You know the rest, sweet wife. For a short time I was happy because my love for you was so mighty there was no room for anything else in my heart, but after a time the fear, the shame, the remorse, the unutterable dread, the terrible anguish, all came over me again, and I knew that in the end they would kill me. Ah! my wife, what words will thank you for your love and care? Yet the more noble, the more true I found you, the deeper and more intolerable grew my remorse. “Then my little children were born, and I looked in the sweet, innocent faces. My pain was martyrdom, and as they grew and began to talk to me, to love me, I loathed myself with the deepest loathing. Were my red hands such as holy lips should cover with tender kisses? “Hermione, I can bear it no longer, so I am going away. It is at my own instigation that this offer has been made to me. I can bear the sweetness, the brightness, the purity of your presence, the tenderness of your love, the affection of my children, no longer. I go out like Cain, with the red brand upon my brow. “I shall never return, love. Something tells me that death awaits me in that far-off land, that I am unworthy to sleep where the heroes of my race rest. I who married a woman and slew her. I have asked you, on my return, to meet me under our favorite tree. I shall never see you there, but go, my love, sometimes, when the wind whispers in the leaves, and it will tell how dearly I loved you. The great God is very merciful and He knows what I have suffered. It may be that my restless spirit will sigh among the branches. Go there, sweet wife, when the dew falls, and remember that I loved you with a love exceeding that of all other men. “You will come, in time, to think of my life as a short one of tragedy--a love story that ended in madness and murder--a dream that had a most terrible awakening. “You may ask me why--when I have tried so hard to elude all suspicion, and have succeeded--why have I preserved the dagger--why have I written this? I cannot tell you, Hermione. There is an old saying, ‘Murder will out.’ I feel compelled to write this confession. The idea is strong upon me that if I do not, harm and evil will come to you, and, my wife--life of my life, soul of my soul--we shall meet no more. You may never read this; it may be lost, it may be undiscovered, but if ever it comes to light, in reading it, judge me mercifully, for I was mad when I took the life of the woman I had sworn to love and cherish. I pray God in His mercy to pardon me, and I pray Him to keep from all men a love so terrible as mine.” And there the manuscript ended. Lord Lorriston laid it down, and, kneeling by the side of his dead daughter, he wept aloud. It was a terrible story--a story of love so mighty in its wild passion it had blighted their lives. Kenelm Eyrle listened to the deep sobs of the strong man, then he laid his hand reverently in the folded hands of the dead lady.