But suddenly he is startled from his dreamy trance of painful thought, by a loud cry of alarm mingled with unmistakable horror and dismay. Looking ahead of him he sees that the party of men have come to an abrupt halt and are huddled around something that seems to be lying in a heap upon the ground. Strangemore’s heart gives a quick throb. His fears for Ferris rush over him with renewed force. Hastening his footsteps, he seeks the scene, but before he reaches it the echo of horrified words apprises him that something very terrible has happened. “Poor fellow, what a terrible retribution has overtaken him,” one is saying, as Talbot comes up and pushes his eager way into the group. Then although his nerves are strong and his heart brave, Talbot Strangemore reels backward a moment, and a deadly faintness and sickness comes over him, for the sight upon which his eyes have fallen is one to chill the stoutest heart. The earth for yards around is splashed with blood and gore. Two great fierce looking wolves lie dead in a horrid crimson pool, and close beside them the body of a man, his blood-spattered garments almost torn from his form by their horrid fangs. He has fought bravely for his life as is shown by the gaping wounds of his two vanquished foes, and by the crimson blade of the long, keen knife lying near to his hand. But strangest sight of all the dread scene was that in one hand of the dead man was extended a sheet of paper from his note book, while a pocket pen lay as if it had fallen from his grasp. With it he had traced in the crimson fluid formed by his spouting life-blood, a few lines of incoherent confession. All seemed to shrink from that blood-written note on which the awful ink was scarcely dry, and one man kneeling on the wet ground, and bending closely over, read it aloud: “Torn by wolves--fought vainly for life. This is my last dying confession. I, Oswald Ferris, killed Sibyl St. Alban. I was crazed by jealousy, and stabbed her to the heart with a dagger. I placed the asp in Talbot Strangemore’s bed, too. I wished to kill him because he suspected me of the murder. I am going fast. But a few more minutes remain. May God pardon my sinful soul, and guide this confession to the hands of Talbot Strangemore in time to save his innocent wife from suffering death on the scaffold for my crime. “OSWALD FERRIS.” All present stood rooted to the ground in silent horror gazing at the bloody victim of the ravening wolves. He seemed almost sacred in their eyes now, having suffered such awful retribution for his sins. Presently Harvey Wilson said in low, awed tones: “The paper belongs to you, Strangemore. Take it.” So Talbot Strangemore advanced and with an awful shudder took up the blood written confession that meant deliverance from her awful peril, life and love and happiness to Nina Strangemore. He said, reverently, and with bent head: “My God, I thank thee.”