But there was no force in the blow. A girl’s whole weight had caught him back from behind. He shook it off, and ran down a back stair. Lord Erceldonne’s son had nothing to stay for. CHAPTER XL. THE EXPIATION OF MOTHER FELICITAS. “Andria!” said Beryl wildly, unbelievingly. “Andria, they told me you were dead.” She had never spoken when the woman she thought dead had run in; pale, breathlessly, but Andria herself and no ghost. She had only gazed dumfounded; then leaped with the instinct of an animal, and caught Erle’s arm as he would have paid his debt to his wife in full. “Oh! how did you get here?” “I’ll tell you in a minute.” Erle’s fist had only grazed her, yet she was leaning helplessly against the wall. She hated him, despised him, and yet--he had struck her; and if he had held out a finger instead she would have gone to the ends of the earth with him still. He was gone out of her sight forever. What ailed her that she could not be glad? “Didn’t know I was coming?” she forced herself to speak. “Didn’t Father Maurice tell you?” “Nothing but that Mrs. Fuller was to take my place and I was to run to the carriage. We spoke to her out in the hall, and she was like a child. She did everything he said. She hated Erceldonne, but she was afraid of him. She had owed him money she could not pay; he had her note and could have taken everything she had. Father Maurice told her I would pay everything she owed if she helped me. It was she who thought of cutting off my hair for a wig. Oh, never mind all that! Tell me what has happened?” She dared not ask for Heriot, lest only one, not two, might have come back alive from Flores. “Look!” said Andria gently. “Salome and the poor old man saved us.” Her heart contracted as she thought of the lunatic running over the moors for his life. He had seemed sane enough till now; had begged them with tears to take him to England to see the dearest of his soul again. Had been times messenger to Beryl before they dared come themselves, and now would finish his life in an asylum, away from the animals that he loved. But Beryl thought of only one thing, one person. Here in the doorway, behind the priest, stood Brian Heriot, alive. He stretched out his hands, and she ran to him. At the sight the woman whom love would know no more turned away. “Father Maurice,” she said, “let us get away from this dreadful place.” “Wait,” the priest whispered, “they are bringing him in. It is better for her not to see.” “Him!” she stammered, thinking of the man who had run from the house. “Lord Erceldonne.” He laid a hand on her arm. “Mr. Erle has gone,” he said quietly, knowing she would never speak that name again. “I must stay and arrange matters for the funeral.” “But I don’t really understand yet,” Beryl cried out still in the embrace of Heriot. “You were shot and----” “The poor old crazy man you sent saved me. Salome nursed me back to life again.”