“Do I wish him to find me here? Yes, I do—I do!” he laughed wildly. “Kiss me, Monica—call me your friend again! There is yet time—show him you are not his slave—show him how you assert yourself in his absence.” Monica recoiled with a cry of horror; but the strength of madness was upon him. He held her fast by the wrist. It was unspeakably hideous to be alone in that dim place with this terrible madman. “Monica, I love you—you shall—you must be mine!” Was that another step without? It was—it was! Thank Heaven he had come! “Randolph! Randolph! Randolph!” Monica’s voice rang out with that sudden piercing clearness that bespeaks terror and distress. The next moment Conrad was hurled backwards, with a force that sent him staggering against the wall, breathless and powerless. Before he could recover himself he was lifted bodily off his feet, shaken like a rat, and literally thrown down the terrace steps, rolling over and over in the descent, till he lay at the foot stunned, bruised and shaken. He picked himself slowly up, muttering curses as he limped away. Little were his curses heeded by the two he had left behind. Monica, white, trembling, unnerved by all she had gone through during the past minutes, held out her arms to her husband. “Randolph! Oh, Randolph!” He clasped her close to his heart, and held her there as if he never meant to let her go. He bent his head over her, and she felt his kisses on her cheek. He did not doubt—he did not distrust her! His strong arms pressed her even closer and closer. She lay against his breast, feeling no wish ever to leave that shelter. Oh, he was so true and noble—her own loving, faithful husband! How she loved him she had never known until that supreme moment. At last she stirred in his arms and lifted her face to his. “Randolph, you must never leave me again,” she said. “I cannot bear it—I cannot.” “I will not, my dear wife,” he answered. “Never again shall aught but death part thee and me.” She clung to him, half shuddering. “Ah! do not talk of death, Randolph. I cannot bear it—I cannot listen.” He pressed a kiss upon her trembling lips. “Does my wife love me now?” he asked, very gravely and tenderly. “Let me hear it from your own sweet lips, my Monica.” “Ah, Randolph, I love, I love you;” she lifted her eyes to his as she spoke. There was something almost solemn in their deep, earnest gaze. “Randolph, I do not think any one but your wife could know such a love as mine.” “Not your husband?” he asked, returning her look with one equally full of meaning. “Monica, you may love as well, but I think you cannot love more than I do.” She laid her head down again. It was unspeakably sweet to hear him say so, to feel his arms about her, to know that they were united at last, and that nothing could part them now. “Not even death,” said Monica to herself; “for love like ours is stronger than death.”