“Kithless and alone; pre-doomed to a curse, and conquered by it at the last. What chance has ever been mine--what hope to escape the ambush laid for me? The love of woman----” He slewed his head about, with its melancholy burning eyes, and his gaze dwelt upon the girl beside him. “The love of woman,” he moaned faintly, “what might it have made of me? I was debarred from that and all by a foul inheritance. The sins of the fathers--the sins of the fathers!” Again a silence fell; but, of a sudden, with a convulsive effort, he had forced himself up sitting, and, leaned upon one hand, was devouring the stone with a great hunger of vision. “A life of torment for a minute of ecstasy!” he cried in a strong voice; “and who shall accept the heritage now to his undoing? Is there any fool in the world invites the curse?” “Luvaine,” said Sir David, gently, “let me take the vile thing and hurl it into the sea.” The dying man looked at him with a strange stare. “Because it has been the sport of devils, shall we discard its infinite possibilities of good? It is the means--the means, if somewhere we can find the instrument.” Betty, with her loving woman’s instinct to pity and relieve, had put her arm about the trembling shoulders to support them. Now Luvaine’s head fell back upon that tender pillow, and a rare smile flickered on his tortured mouth. “To line the cot for the little piping nestling; to nurse it to rich comfort, and train it to be noble and generous and true; to convert this wickedness into a blessing--take it, my child, and with it the last gratitude of this poor foundered wreck.” The girl looked up, frightened, at the others. “No, no, no!” she whispered, in a tearful voice, “I cannot.” “Child--woman, would you deny me this ray of light into the black pit of my doom? The scale is all weighted down on one side. What shall I have to set against the fearful load? They are pinioning me now--my God! I am called to the question!” Sir David came forward swiftly, took the gem from the nerveless hand, and placed it in Betty’s. A sigh quivered up from the soldier’s lips. He gathered all he could of breath for a last effort. “I call those present to witness,” he cried, “that I, Edward Luvaine, do here on my death-bed make free gift of the ruby, called the Lake of Wine, to Betty Pollack.” He sank back and spoke never again. In a few minutes the death-agony was on him. It was brief, but so convulsive while it lasted that, when he was fallen stiffly to rest, they had to fasten his left arm down with a ligature to bring him to some composure of attitude. Then the girl, seeing the others desired to talk, begged them to leave her alone with the dead while they went outside, for that her heart was full of tears, and she would pray mercy on the poor sinner. They went sombrely, and stood without at a little distance in the snow. “It would scarce be decent to congratulate you,” said Blythewood, gravely.