“But hear me! I must tell some one. Oh, this necessity of confession—this afternoon a dispute arose between us, indeed I know not how—I should have calmed, soothed, conciliated her, knowing how dangerous was excitement to that poor, fragile being! But I did not. When she accused me, I recriminated; when she reproached me, I retorted. ‘One word brought on another,’ as the people say. She grew frantic and knew not what she said, I do verily believe. Yet her words stung me to frenzy, and, forgetting my manhood, I—I——” Here Marcel de Crespigney’s voice broke, and he covered his brow with his hand and dropped his head upon his breast with a look of unutterable shame. “You never could have raised your hand against your wife, De Crespigney?” exclaimed the doctor, in a harsh voice, and shrinking away from his companion. Up went the fine head, and wide open with astonishment at such a question the splendid eyes, as Marcel replied: “Who—I? I raise my hand against that poor little, fragile being? I raise my hand against any woman? I may be a devil, Dr. Prout, but I am not—a—what would you call a man who would strike a woman anyway? I am sure I don’t know.” “Pardon me the base thought, De Crespigney. It was but a passing thought. Scarcely that indeed. But what do you mean, then, by your self-accusations, my poor friend?” “I killed her all the same. If I did not strike with my hand, I struck with the poisoned arrow of the tongue. Is any serpent’s sting so venomous as the tongue? Her tongue had stung me to frenzy. She accused me, poor, wrong-headed child that she was, she accused me of marrying her for money, for this miserable, sterile promontory, with its ruinous house and worthless land. I retorted by telling her I married her for pity. “Yes!” cried Marcel, suddenly starting up, and striding to and fro with rising excitement, “yes, villain! caitiff! cur that I was, I told my wife—I told that delicate and sensitive creature that I had married her only for pity! And worse, far worse than that, I saw her pale face grow scarlet at my cruel, shameful words, then, white as death, as she sank upon a chair and placed her hand upon her chest. I did not care. The devil had possession of me.”” “‘You will kill me,’ she gasped. “‘DIE, then, and end it all!’ I answered, brutally, for I half suspected she was acting all this illness. But the next instant she fell heavily forward, with the blood welling from her throat.” “Gracious Heaven!” murmured the doctor in a low tone. “I remembered what you had warned me to do in case of such an emergency. I went and laid her down on the rugs quietly, and then ran out and dispatched a servant for you. In ten minutes I was back again at her side, but—she was gone.” “I came the very moment that I was summoned, but the way was long,” said the doctor.