"_Morituri te salutant_," he said, with a curious mingling of irony and tenderness in his voice. "Accept the blessing of a dying man." "Oh! poor soul—must thou really die?" sighed Prue, at last raising her eyes, filled with tears. At the sight of those sweet, dewy eyes, the newly made husband thrilled in every nerve. "If those tears are for me, sweet Prudence," he said, "death is not so hard to bear." "’Tis sad; indeed, I would I could do aught to comfort thee!" she murmured, half turned away, yet lingering. A dark flush swept his cheek. "I could tell you, if I dared, how to make me forget everything but—yourself," he said. "If you dared!" She flashed an arch glance at him. "On Bleakmoor, you were not so—so ceremonious, Sir Highwayman. Ask me for what you please. My powers are limited, but I will gladly do what I can to console you." "An’ thou wouldst really comfort me, kiss me once, as though I were thy real husband and thou lovedst me." He held out his arms to her, with such prayer and such insistence in his eyes, that Prue, startled, hung back an instant, and then, half involuntarily, drooped toward him, and permitted herself to be clasped in his passionate embrace. When she drew herself away, her cheeks were rosy-red and her eyes cast down. But Robin, transferring his lips to her hand, fell on his knees before her. "Oh!" he softly uttered, "I can bear to die now. Death itself can not rob me of your kiss." "Then you forgive me for—marrying you?" she said. "Forgive you! Oh! if you had killed me, I could have blessed you, but would not have presumed to think of pardon," he passionately breathed, "and now—" Words failed, and his lips finished the invocation on her hand. She placed her other hand gently on his bowed head, and pressing it back, stooped and kissed him on the forehead. It was as pure and tender a caress as a mother could have bestowed on her sleeping babe, but it touched both hearts as the most passionate embrace of love could not have done. It was a farewell benediction. Not another word was spoken, and when Sir Geoffrey returned, Prue allowed him to wrap her in her cloak and hood and lead her away, without even a backward glance at Robin, who, as soon as the door had closed behind them, threw himself on the floor where she had stood, and gave way to an ecstasy of recollection, none the less delicious because there was no future to discount its bliss. When at last he rose to his feet, he gathered up the manuscript at which he had worked since daylight, and tore it into fragments. "Since my death will benefit her, I will not attempt to live," he exclaimed. "She has paid for my life in full and with interest, and I’ll not cheat her of her bargain." He sat down, and on his last remaining sheet of paper, wrote a short letter. "FRIEND STEVE: