It was Cecil Grant, as she had suspected, and she noted with a throbbing heart how handsome he looked, sitting so straight in the saddle, the moonlight on his pale, eager, excited face. Did no pang of remorse touch her cruel heart for her treachery toward this man whom she called friend? Alas, no; she only rejoiced in her sin that left him still free to love and win, if every effort did not fail. “Amber, is it you?” he cried, excitedly. “Good Heaven! why are you returning, and alone? Where is Violet?” Oh, what love and even worship breathed in his tone as he pronounced that name! It thrilled Amber’s heart with rage, but she held it in check and said, quickly: “Cecil, we waited more than half an hour in the chapel and you did not come. Why were you so tardy?” “I will explain later, Amber. Let us go on to Violet now. She must be very uneasy over my detention.” “Uneasy does not express it, Cecil; she was bitterly angry,” Amber replied, with a hard, bitter laugh. “Angry with me, my sweet little Violet! I can scarcely believe it, for surely she would know that I was unavoidably detained. But let us hasten to her so that I can beg her pardon, for I am eager, oh, so eager, Amber--to call my little love my wife.” “Wait, Cecil, there is really no hurry now,” cried Amber, meaningly. CHAPTER XXII. BETTER DEAD THAN FALSE. “But, Amber, I differ with you. Every moment is an hour until I reach my darling,” cried the impatient lover. “And I repeat, Cecil, that there is no hurry. Oh, why did you make that fatal delay? Do you not know that a bridegroom can offer his bride no greater affront than to be late at the marriage hour?” “I know that you speak the truth, Amber; but, oh, Heaven! the cause that detained me was so pressing and sacred and distressing that even a bride could excuse it. Oh, Amber, there is cruel sorrow at Bonnycastle this night, and my mother lies low on a bed of anguish. I was summoned to her side just as I was about to go to the train, and in my horror and distress at my mother’s illness, and while I was comforting her with all my poor power, the train left the station. I tore myself from my poor mother’s couch, rushed to the stable, saddled Prince, and started for Washington at the maddest pace that ever man galloped to his bride. See how the sweat pours from Prince’s flanks, and my blood is rushing through my veins like fire. Violet will forgive me, I know, for my darling cannot help but sympathize with me in the blow that has almost killed my mother.” “What is it, Cecil? for I, too, can sympathize with you in sorrow,” murmured Amber, very sweetly. “It will pain you to hear it, Amber, my gentle friend. Spare me the recital. Let us hasten to sweet Violet. Is she waiting at the chapel?” “She is not waiting at the chapel, Cecil.” “Then where? For surely she came with you to the city! You said just now----” he began, but she interrupted, with a voice of anguish: