The Bishop took her lifeless hands in his, and held them. He made her meet his eyes. Stern, tender, unflinching eyes they were, with a glint of tears in them. "You are willing to bear the cross, and endure the shame?" he said. Two large tears gathered in Fay's wide eyes, and rolled down her bloodless cheeks. You could not look at her, and think that the poor thing was willing to endure anything, capable of enduring anything. The Bishop looked at her, through her. "Or would you rather go home and wait in misery a little longer, and keep him in his cell a little longer: another week--another month--another _year_! You know best how much longer you can wait." Silence. "And Michael can wait, too." "Michael must come out," said Fay, with a sob. "He was always good to me." "Thank God," said the Bishop, and he rose abruptly and went to the window. Magdalen and Fay did not move. They leaned a little closer together. Fay's timid eyes sought her sister's like those of a child which has repeated its lesson, and looks to its teacher to see if it has done well. Magdalen kissed her on the eyes. "I have said everything, haven't I?" "Everything." "I wish I was dead." Magdalen had no voice to answer with. The Bishop came back, and sat down opposite them. "Fay," he said, "as long as you live you will be thankful that you came to me to-day, that you were willing to make atonement by this great act of reparation. The comfort of that remembrance will sink deep into your troubled heart, and will heal its wounds. But the sacrifice is not to be exacted of you. I had to ask if you were willing to make it. But there is no longer any necessity for you to make it. Do you understand?" The Bishop spoke slowly. The two women looked at him with dilated eyes. "Is Michael dead?" said Magdalen. "No. Michael is, I believe, well. The murderer of the Marchese di Maltagliala has confessed. It is in to-day's papers. The Marchese was murdered by his wife. It was quite sudden and unpremeditated, the work of an instant of terror. She has made a full confession on her deathbed. It exonerates Michael entirely. She implores his forgiveness for her long silence." The Bishop's last words reached Fay from a great distance. The room with its many books, and the tall mullioned window with the bare elm branches across it, were all turning gently together in a spreading dimness. The only thing that remained fixed was Magdalen's shoulder, and even that shook a little. Fay leaned her face against it, and let all the rest go. The window with its tree quivered for a moment across the dark and then flickered out. The consciousness of tender hands and voices lingered a moment longer and then vanished too. CHAPTER XXIII All the heavy days are over.--W. B. YEATS. It was very late when Magdalen and Fay reached home. Bessie was on the lookout for them, and met them in the hall.