‘He who rules the destinies of us all decreed that you should meet him unawares. You were the instrument of God’s vengeance upon a villain.’ ‘“Vengeance is mine,”’ repeated Lucius thoughtfully. ‘Often, when reproaching myself for that rash act, I have almost deemed the deed a kind of blasphemy. What right had _I_ to forestall God’s day of reckoning? For every crime there is an appointed punishment. The assassin we hang to-day might pay a still heavier price for his sin were we to leave him in the hands of God, or might be permitted to repent and atone.’ ‘Lucius,’ said Geoffrey, stretching out his hand to his friend, ‘in my eyes you stand clear of all guilt. Was it not chiefly for my defence you fired that shot? and for my own part I can assure you that cold-blooded scoundrel would have had a short shrift had I been his executioner. So let us dismiss all thought of him, with the memory of the last murderer who swung at Newgate. One fact remains paramount—a fact that for me changes earth to Paradise; your sister is free.’ Lucius started, and for the first time a look of absolute fear came into his face. ‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘You will tell her that her husband fell by my hand? You forget, Geoffrey, that my confession must be sacred. If I did not pledge you to secrecy, it was because I had so firm a faith in your honour that I needed no promise of your silence.’ ‘Let me tell her only of that man’s death.’ ‘She will hardly be satisfied with a statement unsupported by proof,’ answered Lucius doubtfully. ‘What, will she doubt my honour?’ ‘Love is apt to be desperate. The lover has a code of his own.’ ‘Not if he is an honest man,’ cried Geoffrey. ‘But Janet has been once deceived, and will be slow to trust where she loves. Put her to the test. Tell her that you know this man is dead, and if she will believe you and if she will be your wife, there is no one, not even yourself, who will be gladder than I. God knows it is a grief for me to think of her lonely position, her lifelong penance for the error of her youth. I have entreated her to share my home, humble as it is, but she refuses. She is proud of her independence, and though I know she loves me, she prefers to live aloof from me, with no other society than her child’s.’ They talked long, Geoffrey full of mingled hope and fear. He left his friend late in the afternoon, intending to go down to Stillmington by the mail train, to try his fortunes once more. Lucius had told him he was beloved; was not that sufficient ground for hope? ‘She will not be too exacting,’ he said to himself. ‘She will not ask me for chapter and verse, for the doctor’s certificate, the undertaker’s bill. If I say to her, “Upon my honour your husband is dead,” she will surely believe me.’ Book the Third. CHAPTER I. A CHANGE CAME O’ER THE SPIRIT OF MY DREAM.