"He has given me the slip. He has slipped the noose and got away. Where? where? Have I lost him? have I lost my prize at the last trick, my Castle Brand, my good luck, my fair play, my amends for seven months of toil under his boot-heel? No, not while I have brain to plan, or body to track him. I swear to leave this book untouched until I have found him and left him a lump of clay." Leaf by leaf is turned over; the pale hand stops and trembles down to her side. Here is a note. If he has kept his vow, this note is a record of St. Udo's murder. She reads a date, and her eyes seem to pulsate with blind fire. "September 1st. The deed is done. Lost in the skurry of a midnight sortie. 'Killed in battle,' his men will say; but--Thoms knows better! He tracked him with his long sleuth-hound through the swamps, and the surging morass, and the long, hot highway, the spikey groves, the dark fens, and through hunger and danger of death; and he found him! Why not keep his promise? He stole his history, habits, phrases, manners, friends; and now, the lesson being learned, Thoms may keep his promise, made to himself. He stooped this moonlit night upon the battle-field, and stole his master's life, and stood erect--not _Thoms, the ignoble valet, but St. Udo, the heir of Castle Brand_!" Margaret paused, sick and heart-quenched. Memory brought back the vision of the battle-field, and of the wounded hero, and of the brooding assassin, and reason stood aghast at the manifest overturn of her natural laws. "Grant me days enough to avenge him, high Heaven!" she cried, with a passion of tears. She would allow herself no luxury of sorrow; she repressed these tears, trimmed her candles--took up her bitter task again. Part the third showed that the murderer had arrived in England; that he had lurked about the castle for a few days before presenting himself, and acquainted himself with as many necessary facts as possible. After this came the appearance of the pseudo-heir before the executors. "I have stepped into the wrong man's shoes with marvelous ease, and I have seen my future wife. Could anything be more appropriate, I wonder, than for her to faint at sight of me? I am resolved to marry her. It wouldn't be fair play to silence _her_ as I silenced some one who is in his grave; and when we are man and wife I will tell her where she first saw her husband." The second entry was not quite so confident: "The girl is going to be troublesome. Confound her! why has she taken such a dislike to me?" Entry the third still more expressive of alarm: "What's this I hear? The girl left Gay's house without any explanation, and gone to Castle Brand. What does that mean? Has she taken anything into her head against _me_? "I think she has seen with those mystical eyes of hers the deep ruts on my wrists and ankles; and I think she is looking back a dozen years to the man who lay in chains and cursed her cup of cold water. Confound her! I am afraid of her."