For three hours the friends were together, hand clasped in hand. Words were spoken that were full of ineffable tenderness. There were intervals of silence no less replete with happiness. There was a mutual language of thorough understanding in the eyes as well as on the lips. Zulma's theme was of hope. She quickly reached that point where she dismissed the idea of death and insisted on life for the mutual enjoyment of the twain. Not for Pauline's sake, but for her own, now that she knew what she knew, she saw it was necessary that death should be robbed of its sting and the grave resign its victory. Did Pauline acquiesce? She said not so--how could she dare, she that was dying without hope?--but there was a lambent gleam in her sunken eye, as of a ray of the future's sunshine playing upon it. The afternoon passed softly, gently. The sun was gliding behind the trees and the long shadows crept over the valley faintly dimming the window panes. The holy hour of twilight had come. The angelus bells from the turret of the distant village church echoed sweetly on the tranquil air, and Zulma knelt by the bedside to murmur the _Ave Maria_. When she rose, she stood and listened. There were carriage wheels at the door. "Do you hear?" she said. Pauline opened great bewildered eyes and her features became pinched. Then turning rapidly, she hid her face in the pillow, sobbing convulsively. "Oh, Zulma, this is too much. Why did you do it? It must not be. Oh, let me die." She essayed to say more but tears choked her utterance. "It is God's will!" whispered Zulma in calm, clear accents, still standing above her with a look of inspiration. The invalid turned back on her pillow, cast an agonizing glance of gratitude upon her friend, and holding out her hand murmured. "Heaven bless you, dearest." XVI. THE HOUR OF GLOOM. The interview with Cary Singleton was not delayed a moment. Both he and Pauline desired that Zulma should be present, but she imagined a pressing pretext and glided out of the chamber. As she did so, her face was irradiated. Meeting Batoche in the passage, near the entrance to the house, she threw herself upon his neck and burst into silent tears. "Courage, mademoiselle," he said in a pathetic voice. "You have been magnificent, and shall have your reward. Courage." "It is over, Batoche. A momentary weakness which I could not resist. I am happier now than I ever was in my life." Batoche looked at her with admiration and whispered:-- "There was only one way of saving her life." "Yes, and we have adopted it." "You have adopted it, not I. Yours is all the merit and you shall be blessed for it." The two then went into the room of M. Belmont to keep him company, while he awaited with resignation the result of the conference in the sick chamber.