this brother, so loving and generous, it was that she had dismissed from life. She paused; she turned round, as if looking back for his grave; she saw the dreadful wildernesses of snow which already she had traversed. Silent they were at this season, even as in the panting heats of noon, the Zaarrahs of the torrid zone are oftentimes silent. Dreadful was the silence; it was the nearest thing to the silence of the grave. Graves were at the foot of the Andes, _that_ she knew too well; graves were at the summit of the Andes, _that_ she saw too well. And, as she gazed, a sudden thought flashed upon her, when her eyes settled upon the corpses of the poor deserters--could she, like _them_, have been all this while unconsciously executing judgment upon herself? Running from a wrath that was doubtful, into the very jaws of a wrath that was inexorable? Flying in panic--and behold! there was no man that pursued? For the first time in her life, Kate trembled. _Not_ for the first time, Kate wept. Far less for the first time was it, that Kate bent her knee--that Kate clasped her hands--that Kate prayed. But it _was_ the first time that she prayed as _they_ pray, for whom no more hope is left but in prayer. Here let me pause a moment for the sake of making somebody angry. A Frenchman, who sadly misjudges Kate, looking at her through a Parisian opera-glass, gives it as _his_ opinion--that, because Kate first _records_ her prayer on this occasion, therefore, now first of all she prayed. _I_ think not so. _I_ love this Kate, blood- stained as she is; and I could not love a woman that never bent her knee in thankfulness or in supplication. However, we have all a right to our own little opinion; and it is not you, '_mon cher_,' you Frenchman, that I am angry with, but somebody else that stands behind you. You, Frenchman, and your compatriots, I love oftentimes for your festal gaiety of heart; and I quarrel only with your levity and that eternal worldliness that freezes too fiercely--that absolutely blisters with its frost--like the upper air of the Andes. _You_ speak of Kate only as too readily you speak of all women; the instinct of a natural scepticism being to scoff at all hidden depths of truth. Else you are civil enough to Kate; and your '_homage_' (such as it may happen to be) is always at the service of a woman on the shortest notice. But behind _you_, I see a worse fellow; a gloomy fanatic; a religious sycophant that seeks to propitiate his circle by bitterness against the offences that are most unlike his own. And against him, I must say one word for Kate to the too hasty reader. This villain, whom I mark for a shot if he does not get out of the way, opens his fire on our Kate under shelter of a lie. For there is a standing lie in the very constitution of civil society, a _necessity_ of error, misleading us as to the proportions of crime. Mere necessity obliges man to create many acts into felonies, and to punish them as the