A hoarse, inarticulate sound came from his gaping mouth, and then issued the words that his mind had created unknown to him while he knelt, but now were uttered in a purely physical release from the throat that had held them back through a period of utter unconsciousness. He never knew that he spoke them; they were not the words that his conscious mind was now framing for deliverance. He said what he had already started to say when his soul was full of hatred for Yvonne. “You foul, cringing------” and then came the new cry--“Matilde, Matilde! Forgive! Forgive!” Slowly her eyes were lowered until they fell full upon his stricken face. “Am I going mad?” he whispered hoarsely. As he stared the delicate, wan face of Matilde began to fade and he again saw the brilliant, undimmed features of Yvonne. “But it _was_ Matilde! What trick of------” He sprang to his feet and advanced upon her, stepping across the body of his son in his reckless haste. For many seconds they stood with their faces close together, he staring wildly, she with a dull look of agony in her eyes, but unflinching. What he saw caused an icy chill to sweep through his tense body and a sickness to enter his soul. He shrank back. “Who--who are you?” he cried out in sudden terror. He felt the presence of Matilde. He could have stretched out his hand and touched her, so real, so vivid was the belief that she was actually there before him. “Matilde was here--I saw her, I saw her. And--and now it is you! She is still here. I can feel her hand touching mine--I can feel--no, no! It is gone--it--has passed. She has left me again. I--I------” The cold, lifeless voice of Yvonne was speaking to him, huskier than ever before. “Matilde _has_ been here. She has always been with her son. She is always near you, James Brood.” “What--are--you--saying?” he gasped. She turned wearily away and pointed to the weapon on the table. “Who is to use it--you or I?” He opened his mouth, but uttered no sound. His power of speech was gone. She went on in a deadly monotone. “You intended the bullet for me. It is not too late. Kill me, if you will. I give you the first chance--take it, for if you do not I shall take mine.” “I--I cannot kill you, I cannot kill the woman who stood where you are standing a moment ago. Matilde was there! She was alive; do you hear me? Alive and--ah!” The exclamation fell from his lips as she suddenly leaned forward, her intense gaze fixed on Frederic's face. “See! Ah, see! I prayed, and I have been answered. See!” He turned. Frederic's eyes were open. He was looking up at them with a piteous appeal, an appeal for help, for life, for consciousness. “He is not dead! Frederic, Frederic, my son----” Brood dropped to his knees and frantically clutched at the hand that lay stretched beside the limp figure. The pain-stricken eyes closed slowly. Yvonne knelt beside Brood. He saw a slim, white hand go out and touch the pallid brow.