“Silence!” said Faradeane, and his voice rose like that of a stern, relentless judge. “I am thinking. But not of you! I am thinking of her--of the girl whose life you have wrecked and ruined, whose heart you have broken! Don’t speak!” He held up his hand. “Every word you utter tempts me to call for some one to drag you away. You, the husband of----For your own sake, don’t speak to me.” Bartley Bradstone crouched on the ground, his hands clutching at the grass, his face hidden. A minute or two passed, as Faradeane bent over the pallid face upon his knee, his own almost as white, his heart racked by the awful torture of the position. All his thought was of the sweet, innocent, pure-hearted girl, for whom he would have gladly laid down his life, and whom this blood-stained wretch had linked to his own shameful name. Then, as he looked down upon the woman, scarcely seeing her, he was recalled to the fact of her presence by a slight movement of her eyelids. They opened. For a moment there was nothing but a dense shadow over them; then she recognized him. “You!” she breathed, with a faint flicker of surprise in her face. He bent down. “It is I,” he said. “My poor Bella!” The shadow of a smile swept over her face. “Poor Bella, eh?” she gasped, so low that he could just hear her, and no more. “You--you didn’t speak like that last night, Cly! No! But--but why am I lying here--what’s this pain in my side? Ah!” a shudder ran through her; “I--I remember! Cly, he--he shot me! The coward! the coward! He didn’t give me time! If he had----” She tried to raise her arm. “Cly,” and a spasm quivered on her lips, “am I--am I--going to die? Tell me the--truth? You always did that.” “My poor girl!” dropped from his lips again. She closed her eyes, and for a second or two remained silent; then she opened them with a lurid light in them. “Cly, listen to me. Take--take down what I--I tell you. The man who shot me--was--was Bartley Bradstone! You know--him?” He made a faint gesture of assent. “He--he is a scoundrel; the worst, the meanest; he’s--he’s married an innocent--girl--this morning, and--and--he wanted to put me out of the way.” She gasped for breath. A strange change flashed into Faradeane’s face. Was it a sudden hope--a sudden, almost overwhelming relief? “Bella!” he whispered, hoarsely, “what was there between you? Was he your husband?” She understood the significance of his tone, the hope that shone so vividly in his dark eyes, and she managed to shake her head. “No! Yes--we were married, but--he is not my husband. You----” Her breath failed her; the hope died out of his eyes, but he raised her into a more comfortable position. Both had forgotten the miserable wretch who crouched near them, listening as well as the tolling of the death bell in his ears would let him. After a pause--during which she struggled for breath--she panted, her voice almost inaudible: