For a long time he sat without motion after this recital. Edward loosened the faded cords of his gown. The old man spoke again in a whisper: "Come closer; there is another secret. I knew then that I had never before loved her. My marriage had been an outrage of heart-faith. I mistook admiration, sympathy, memory, for love. I was swept from my feet by her devotion, but it is true--as God is my judge, I never loved her until then--until her sad, ruined life spoke to me in that song on the streets of Paris." Edward still held his hand. "Benoni," he said, simply, "there is no guilt upon your soul to have deserved the convict's irons. Believe me, it is better to send for her and let her come to you. Think of the long years she has searched; of the long years of uncertainty that must follow. You cannot, you cannot pass away without paying the debt; it was your fault in the beginning----" The old man had gradually lifted his head; now he bowed it. "Then you owe her the admission. Oh, believe me, you are wrong if you think the scars of misfortune can shame away love. You do not know a true woman's heart. You have not much time, I fear; let me send for her." There was no reply. He knelt and took one withered hand in his. "Benoni, I plead for you as for her. There will come a last moment--you will relent; and then it will be too late." "Send!" It was a whisper. The lips moved again; it was an address. Upon a card Edward wrote hurriedly: "The blind musician who once played for you is dying. He has the secret of your life. If you would see your husband alive lose no minute. "A Friend." He dashed from the room and ran rapidly to a cab stand. "Take this," he said, "bring an answer in thirty minutes, and get 100 francs. If the police interfere, say a dying man waits for his friend." The driver lashed his horses, and was lashing them as he faded into the distance. Edward returned; he called for hot water and bathed the dying man's feet; he rubbed his limbs and poured brandy down his throat. He laid his watch upon the little table; five, ten, fifteen, twenty, five--would she never come? Death had already entered; he was hovering over the doomed man. The door opened; a tall woman of sad but noble countenance stepped in, thrusting back her veil. Edward was kneeling by Benoni's side. Cambia's eyes were fastened upon the face of the dying man. Edward passed out, leaving them alone. A name escaped her. "Gaspard." Slowly, leaning upon the arm of his chair, the old man arose and listened. "It was a voice from the past," he said, clearly. "Who calls Gaspard Levigne?" "Oh, God in heaven!" she moaned, dropping to her knees. "Is it true? What do you know of Gaspard Levigne?" "Nothing that is good; but I am he, Marie!" The woman rushed to his side; she touched his face and smoothed the disordered hair. She held his hand after he had sunk into his chair.