We heard the front-door hastily opened, and voices outside: then a knock at the door of the smoking-room, and the old house-keeper appeared, looking a little scared. “Two persons, my Lord, to speak with Dr. Forester.” Arthur stepped outside at once, and we heard his cheery “Well, my men?” but the answer was less audible, the only words I could distinctly catch being “ten since morning, and two more just——” “But there _is_ a doctor there?” we heard Arthur say: and a deep voice, that we had not heard before, replied “Dead, Sir. Died three hours ago.” Lady Muriel shuddered, and hid her face in her hands: but at this moment the front-door was quietly closed, and we heard no more. For a few minutes we sat quite silent: then the Earl left the room, and soon returned to tell us that Arthur had gone away with the two fishermen, leaving word that he would be back in about an hour. And, true enough, at the end of that interval—during which very little was said, none of us seeming to have the heart to talk—the front-door once more creaked on its rusty hinges, and a step was heard in the passage, hardly to be recognised as Arthur’s, so slow and uncertain was it, like a blind man feeling his way. He came in, and stood before Lady Muriel, resting one hand heavily on the table, and with a strange look in his eyes, as if he were walking in his sleep. “Muriel—my love——” he paused, and his lips quivered: but after a minute he went on more steadily. “Muriel—my darling—they—_want_ me—down in the harbour.” “_Must_ you go?” she pleaded, rising and laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking up into his face with her great eyes brimming over with tears. “Must _you_ go, Arthur? It may mean—death!” He met her gaze without flinching. “It _does_ mean death,” he said, in a husky whisper: “but—darling—I am _called_. And even my life itself——” His voice failed him, and he said no more. For a minute she stood quite silent, looking upwards with a helpless gaze, as if even prayer were now useless, while her features worked and quivered with the great agony she was enduring. Then a sudden inspiration seemed to come upon her and light up her face with a strange sweet smile. “_Your_ life?” she repeated. “It is not _yours_ to give!” Arthur had recovered himself by this time, and could reply quite firmly, “That is true,” he said. “It is not _mine_ to give. It is _yours_, now, my—wife that is to be! And you—do _you_ forbid me to go? Will you not spare me, my own beloved one?” Still clinging to him, she laid her head softly on his breast. She had never done such a thing in my presence before, and I knew how deeply she must be moved. “I _will_ spare you,” she said, calmly and quietly, “to God.” “And to God’s poor,” he whispered. “And to God’s poor,” she added. “When must it be, sweet love?” [Illustration: ‘WILL YOU NOT SPARE ME?’] “To-morrow morning,” he replied. “And I have much to do before then.”