Somehow, Louis Gravani, save with three or four of the witnesses of the tragedy, dropped entirely out of the affair, going as suddenly as he had come, though he seemed always present in the little bedchamber on the Parade, where May lay almost at the point of death, muttering feebly, and appealing to him not to be so cruel as to kill her, because she always thought that he was dead. The surgeon had done all that was possible, and he had consulted with the principal physician as to the course to be pursued; and then, in the face of two grave wounds in the neck and breast of the frail, childish little creature, they had left her to the wild delirium that had set in--one whose fever was burning away rapidly the flickering life that was left. The window was wide open, and the soft, low rush of the water upon the shingle floated in like soft, murmurous music through the flowers that it had always been Claire's pleasure to tend. Then a faint, querulous cry, oft repeated, came from seaward, where the soft grey-plumaged gulls swept here and there, and dipped down at the shelly shoals laid bare as the tide ebbed and flowed. It was a weird, uneasy sound, that accorded well with the painful scene in the chamber given up to the sick girl, by whose side stood Claire, pale and anxious, ready to fan the burning face, or rearrange the bedclothes tossed uneasily away. Near the foot of the bed sat the Master of the Ceremonies, grey, hollow-cheeked, and with a wild look of despairing horror in his eyes, as he gazed at his little fallen idol, for whom he had fought and schemed, and whom he had so obstinately held aloft in his own heart, to the disparagement of her patient, forbearing sister. "Is it true, Claire?" he murmured at last; "is it true, or some dreadful dream? My child! My child!" Then his face grew convulsed with horror, as May turned her face towards him, and began speaking rapidly: "Don't, Louis--pray: don't.--No: I am afraid.--Take me away quickly, dear.--No one will know, and I hate him so.--Little mean wretch!--They made me marry him, and I hate him more and more.--Hush!" Denville groaned, and, as his head drooped upon his breast, Claire heard him murmur: "Is it a judgment--is it a judgment for the past?" She shivered as she listened to his words, but a quick movement and a low cry of pain made her bend over her sister again. "Take me away," she said, after a few moments; and her pinched face bore a look of terror that stabbed those who watched with an agonising pain. "I tell you I hate Frank, and I dare not meet poor Louis now. It is not he, but something from the dead. Claire--Claire--hold me. Sister, help! Don't let me go. Am I going to die?" "May, May!" whispered Claire soothingly, as she laid her cheek against the burning face; and the sick girl sighed, and made an effort to cling to her, but her feeble arm dropped heavily upon the coverlid. "Don't let Louis come now. Is that Frank? Is that--"