Faradeane sank back with a sigh, and closed his eyes, and remained silent for a few minutes; then he said, quietly: “Where are you taking me?” “To Wainford, sir,” replied the constable. “You’ll be more comfortable in the regular prison there than in the Hawkwood lockup.” “Thank you,” said Faradeane. “That is thoughtful of you.” The man eyed him with a strange expression. “Come, sir,” he said, bending forward. “You know, and I know, that you didn’t do this. Why not up and out with the truth? If you didn’t like to do it before all these people, why not tell me? I know it’s not quite regular, but I’ll be hanged if I uses a word against you!” Faradeane shook his head. “You mean well,” he said, wearily. “I appreciate and understand your kindness, my good fellow; but you cannot help me. You must do your duty.” “Yes, I must do that,” said the man, gravely. “But every minute you let this charge hang over you, settles it more firmly down, and--there’s danger in it, sir.” “Yes, I know that,” assented Faradeane, calmly. They reached Wainford, and found the prison officials prepared for them by telegraph. The governor, as he read the warrant, glanced once or twice at the pale face. “All right and regular, Wilcox, I suppose?” he said. “No mistake, eh?” “No, sir,” said the constable, and he rapidly recounted the facts, and showed the revolver. The governor nodded. “Anything to say?” he asked of the prisoner, courteously. “Nothing,” replied Faradeane, gravely. The governor signed to a turnkey, and Faradeane was conducted to his cell. As the lock sprang into its place with an ominous click, and he found himself alone, he started, and looked round like a man awaking from some hideous dream, and made a step toward the iron door; then he stopped, and, with a sigh, sank on to the prison bed. “God give me strength to go through with it!” he murmured. “Let me remember it is for her sake! Oh, my darling, for your sake!” CHAPTER XXVI. “WILLFUL MURDER.” The shades of evening fell upon the wedding day; the guests had gone, with one theme upon their lips; the village was all astir with excitement; the Grange was thronged with a hustling crowd, all talking of the tragic event which had fallen like a thunderbolt upon the marriage festivities. Olivia lay still unconscious. The Wainford doctor was in close attendance, and had issued a strict command for profound quiet. A hush deep as that which waits on death prevailed throughout the great house, which a few hours ago had been brimming over with talk and laughter. Beside the bed, his white head buried in his hands, sat the squire, and, kneeling with her beloved mistress’ hand in hers, was Bessie. She was almost as white as the face that lay so calm and still on the pillow, but every now and then her lips twitched, and a spasm of agony passed across her face.