There was a murmur of applause that ran round the court as he sat down. Then the judge summed up strongly in her favor. There had been no evidence to contradict the prisoner’s own statement. No eye save her own had been in that chamber of death in the darkness of the night. Something, indeed, had been said about signs of more force having been used than it was in the power of a woman’s frail hands to employ, but there had been no evidence in support of that theory; not a vestige of any other presence in the prisoner’s chamber, save that of her would-be destroyer, had come to light; and the jury must bear in mind that a desperate woman is often given an almost miraculous strength in such moments of horror and of fear, and that if the blow with the silver dagger had been, as it appeared, struck first, the victim would necessarily have become much weakened, and was probably in a partial state of collapse. There was much more of it, but it was all in her favor, and almost before the jury retired it was felt that their decision was a foregone conclusion. No one could righteously condemn a woman to death for murder who had taken a man’s life under such circumstances as these. So the horror of it all came to an end, and Lady Francis Onslow was told that she was free; that she could go where she pleased, and do as she liked. One thing there was, however, that not all the judges and the juries in the land could do for her; they could not wash the stain of blood from her hands. It was when Clitheroe Jacynth came that night to visit her at her hotel in Dover Street (she had left for London immediately after the trial), that this terrible fact first came home to her in all its dreadful reality. As he entered the room, she ran gladly to meet him, impulsively reaching out both her small hands to him. “It is to you I owe my life!” she cried; “it is you who have saved me. How can I ever repay you, or ever thank you enough?” But Jacynth stood with a grave, sad face, and downcast eyes, and arms folded together across his breast, and took no notice whatever of those little white hands stretched out to him. A dull sense of dismay crept over her; something--she hardly knew why or wherefore--struck a cold chill to her heart, and her hands sank nervelessly down again to her side. “Won’t you shake hands with me, Mr. Jacynth?--you, who have just saved my life?” “If I have saved you, it is because it was my duty, and because-- because--alas, I love you, Fenella! and I shall love you to my dying day! That is why, if I can serve you, I will do so, if I can be of use to you. You can command me now, and always, but I cannot take your hand, for there is blood on it!” and he averted his face gloomily.