She felt as if the chord of volition had snapped in her brain, when this strong impulse fell on it. So without hesitation, or thought of consequences, she obeyed the impulse and spoke what she was compelled to--spoke in a dreamy passionless voice at first, like one under the mesmeric influence. All the fierce love and all the fierce hate were slumbering for the time, the idea was alone in her mind. She rose to her full height, and taking the girl's hand again in hers, the words, unpremeditated by her, came forth slowly. "Mary, you have left us, but you have not betrayed us. I know you too well to suspect you of that. You are free. It is unnecessary to release you from your promises to us--you are free without that. Oh, Mary! my heart is broken. We have failed--failed miserably. Our Society is broken up. When it came to action, the weak women would not support me. The very object of the Society is no more. Everything has gone wrong. The Act of Parliament relating to the Tenure of Land on which all our hopes hung will not be passed after all. There are signs to show that the Radicals will not obtain that overwhelming majority we looked forward to at the coming elections. Our plans are postponed indefinitely, which means that all is lost. There is an accursed reaction in the country. It is all over, my scheme, my hopes. You are free--marry, do what you will. You need not fear the weight of the secret any more. You need not tremble to read in the papers accounts of our doings. It is all over, and there is nothing left me now but to die." Thus had Catherine King been driven by the irresistible power to tell this comforting lie to the girl; all the ideas and plans that filled her mind when she came down having vanished completely as if they had never been. And she said the very thing that was alone needed to make Mary really free and happy. The girl had no further cause to fear the secret. It was a harmless secret now. The horrible work would not be done. Her conscience would not torment her for preserving a criminal silence, and so becoming the accomplice of assassins. A light of supreme triumphant joy came to Mary's eyes. She could not speak at first, so moved was she, but stood with her hands clasped together, trying to realize all that those precious words meant for her. Then Catherine was inspired once more by the power to speak--to complete her work. "Mary! you must promise me one thing. Kneel down, girl,--kneel and swear by the God in whom you now believe that you will keep this promise." She spoke in a terrible voice that compelled obedience. It was not herself but _that_ which possessed her, that cried through her mouth in such commanding accents. Mary knelt down, pale and trembling. "I swear it," she whispered. "Remember! as long as you live, if I, or any of the Sisterhood, at any time, invite you to visit them or meet them anywhere--you must not go. Avoid us all for ever. If you act otherwise you will die."