Again the racking cough seized her, and she sank speechless at his feet. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the sofa, and flung open the shutters and let the light and air stream in upon her, as she lay prostrate and exhausted, wiping her white lips with a blood-stained handkerchief. He looked at her in a kind of horrified compassion. He thought that she was raving, that the excitement of the morning had culminated in fever and delirium. He was going to ring for help, meaning to send instantly for her doctor, when she stopped him, laying her thin cold hand upon his arm, and holding him by her side. “Sit down by me, Martin--don’t stop me--I must tell you--all--the truth.” Her words came slowly, in gasps; then with a great effort she gathered up the poor remnant of her strength, and went on in a low, tremulous voice, yet with the tone of one whose resolve was strong as death itself. “There was a time when I thought I could never tell you--that I must go down to my grave with my sin unrevealed, and that you would never know how worthless a woman you had loved and cherished. Then, on my knees before my God, I vowed that I would tell you all, at the last, when I was dying--and death is not far off now, Martin. I have delayed too long--too long! There is scarcely any atonement in my confession now. I have cheated you out of your love.” He looked at her horror-stricken, their two faces close to each other as he bent over her pillow. No; this was no delirium--there was a terrible reality in her words. The eyes looking up at him were not bright with fever, but with the steady resolute soul within--the soul panting for freedom from sin. “You have cheated me out of my love,” he repeated slowly. “Does that mean that you lied to me that night in London--that you perjured yourself, calling God to witness that you were pure and true?” “I was true to you then, Martin. My sin had been repented of. I was your loving, loyal wife, without one thought but of you.” “Loving, loyal!” he cried, with passionate scorn. “You had deceived and dishonoured me--you had made your name a by-word--a jest for such a man as Vansittart Crowther--and for how many more? You had lied, and lied, and lied to me--by every look, by every word that made you seem a virtuous woman and a faithful wife. My God, what misery!” “Martin, have pity!” “Pity! Yes, I pity the women in the streets! Am I to pity you, as I pity them? You, whom I worshipped--whom I thought as pure as the angels--wearing nothing of earth but your frail loveliness, which to me always seemed more of spirit than of clay. And you were false all the time--false as hell--the toy of the first idle profligate whom chance flung into your path? It was Lostwithiel! That man was right. He would hardly have dared to talk to you as he did if he had not been certain of his facts. Lostwithiel was your lover.” “Martin, have pity!” she repeated, with her hands clasped before her face.