“Don’t--don’t spare him, Cly! He--he isn’t--worth it! Ah--I--I can’t tell you! And there’s so--so much! so much! If I could, you’d--you’d forgive me! Yes, you would! Hold me higher, Cly! Have pity on me, and--and forgive me! I’m not so--so bad as you--think! Oh, if I--could tell you! Cly--there’s--there’s a mistake! I----” a low cry of terror and dread, a piteous cry rang from her lips, and her eyes dwelt upon his face with a terrible entreaty. “Forgive me, Cly, it’s--it’s not so bad--you are----Forgive----” She stopped. Death, who had been hovering over with outstretched hand, let his iron fingers fall and grasp her. A slight tremor passed over her face, and then---- Will it be remembered when the final account is settled that the last words on her lips were a prayer for forgiveness? The silence of the grave reigned in the dreadful spot for a moment or two; then Bartley Bradstone raised himself, and, crawling nearer, peered at her. He fell back with a moaning whine. “She’s--she’s dead!” he gasped. “Yes,” said Faradeane, in a strangely subdued tone, “she is dead. Your work is finished.” He laid the body down gently, reverently, and looked at his watch. Bartley Bradstone rose to his knees. “What are you going to do?” he demanded, hoarsely. “Are you--are you going to betray me?” Faradeane stood looking down at the still form, scarcely seeming to hear him. “Are you? Are you?” persisted the wretch. “Think, for Heaven’s sake, think! It isn’t for me! It isn’t for me! I don’t care what becomes of me! No, I don’t. They--they may hang me when they like! But it’s her--Olivia----” Faradeane started, and turned his eyes upon him. “It’s of her I’m thinking; and you’d--you’d better remember her, too. If--if I’m taken it will kill her with--with shame. You know that! Oh, be quick, for God’s sake! I--I can get away if--if you’ll help me. There’s--there’s time even now,” he panted, in a frenzied tone. “Nobody knows she was here, nobody heard the--the shot! She won’t be missed till I’m clear away! For her sake--for Olivia’s, Faradeane. I know you love her.” “Silence!” broke from Faradeane’s white lips. He turned his back upon him, as if the sight of him was more than he could endure. The leaves rustled overhead, the noise of the villagers over on the lawn came faintly on the breeze, mingling with the joyous music of the bells--Olivia’s wedding bells! Suddenly he turned as if he had made his decision, and Bradstone, who had been watching him, caught a shred of hope from something in his face. “Ah!” he gasped. Faradeane held up his hand. “I will save you,” he said, and his voice sounded grim and solemn. “Do not speak, but listen. Every moment is one of life or death--to you. You speak of flying. It would be useless. You cannot get away; if you did, suspicion would turn upon you at once. You understand, you realize that? Get up!”