"To the last sol, the last dénier--excepting a provision for thy unhappy wife. Thou art the shedder of blood, the blasphemer of the Church and its holy offices, thy soul is clogged with guilt. I know not, even then, and with all else that thou must do, if it can ever find expiation." "Say not so, father; absolve me, pardon me! See! see! I will do it. Before God I swear, in this His house, that I will do it! I will become a beggar, part with all. Only, father, give me His pardon. Pardon, and set me free!" "Yet, still more," said that voice, "must thou do. Listen!" And from his lips there fell so deep a charge that the murderer, kneeling there, knew that to save his soul in heaven he must forego all hopes of future peace on earth. Nevermore was he to touch meat nor aught but the coarsest black bread, never drink but water, never sleep soft, nor lie warm again. And there was worse even than that. He was to go forth to wild, savage parts of the world, there to pass the rest of his existence in trying to preach God's goodness and mercy to the heathen who knew Him not. On the promise that he would do this the priest would give him absolution; otherwise he would refuse it, and his soul must go to everlasting perdition. He promised, and he was absolved! Still sitting there, the last in the cathedral that night--for all were gone now except those who were to guard it until midnight had struck--he became the prey of even worse horrors than he had been before; he was absolved as regards his soul, yet into his mind a new fear had arisen for his body--a fear that became a spectre. He had thought that once or twice he had recognised in the tones of the priest's voice some that were familiar to him; now he felt sure that they were. He had confessed to his bitterest enemy on earth--to Archibald Sholto! to the brother of the man whom he had murdered! This was the meaning of the awful doom passed on him--the doom of ruin, beggary, and starvation, of expatriation to wild and savage lands. To him! He had confessed to him of all others! Yet, was it so, or was he, in truth, mad? He had heard of madmen who knew that they were mad and who could yet be so cunning as to contend with that madness, wrestle with it, subdue it--for a time. Let him do so now. Let him think it all out. Was it, in truth, Archibald Sholto? It might well be. For three months he had been in hiding in a small village near Amiens, watching over the course of events connected with his assassination of Douglas, avoiding, above all others, yet keeping them ever under his own view, two persons. One was Archibald, the other the woman who had seen his face on that night--the white-faced woman in the darkened room who had raised her finger and pointed as he did the deed.