Bee could see nothing in the darkness except the occasional glimmer of a light moving from point to point, as she sat, half-fainting with nervous fear and impatience, while the clock in the tower told first the hour of eleven, and then the quarter, and then the half, and then,—surely there was a footstep in the direction of the gate, and a voice she recognized as Yulah’s called softly, “Michel, Michel, are you there? Help me lift her; she is dead, or fainted, and I’ve brought her all the way.” “Can one of you hold my horses?” Michel asked, and in an instant Beatrice was at their heads, patting, and caressing, and talking to them in the language all brutes recognize, whether in English or German, while Mr. Morton and Michel were at the gate, which was high and locked, and over which they lifted bodily a figure which lay perfectly motionless in the arms of Michel, who bore it to the carriage, and laid it down gently, but not until Beatrice, with a woman’s forethought, had made sure who it was. She had risked too much to be disappointed now, and bidding Michel wait a moment, she struck a match with which she had prepared herself, and holding it close to the inanimate form in his arms, saw the face she knew, but so white, and worn, and still, with the long, curling lashes lasting on the pallid cheeks, where tears and suffering had left their traces in dark, purplish rings, that with a gasping cry she said: “Oh, Theo, it’s Rossie, but dead; I am sure she is dead.” “Now, Michel, drive for your life!” Yulah exclaimed, as she sprang to the box beside him, after having seen Rossie carefully lifted into the carriage, where she lay supported mostly by Mr. Morton, though her head was in Beatrice’s lap, and Beatrice’s hands were busy unfastening the waterproof hood, and her tears were flowing like rain on the face which, even in the darkness, looked ghostly white and corpse-like.