"Lauraine," he sighs, and moves restlessly in his sleep. She stands there like one stunned. "Oh, God!" she murmurs within herself, "_my promise!_" Alone in her own room Lauraine sits in a sort of stupor, merciful in its dull pain, since it renders all thought powerless for the time being. Her husband has need of her. She has promised to stay with him, and she must keep her word. No past sins or errors of his should be the measure of her duty, so she had felt; and now her word is given, and Keith's dying eyes seem to summon her across the weary distance that separates them, and she dares not go. It is but a few moments since she has left her husband's side, but the Sister comes to her now to entreat her to return. Sir Francis is asking for her. She rises mechanically, and goes back to the sick-room. The gaunt face, the eager eyes are turned towards the door. "You promised not to leave me," he whispers, faintly, and Lauraine cannot find it in her heart to tell him that she needs rest, that she is worn and spent with long hours of anxiety and suspense. "Come here--sit down--so--close to me," he continues brokenly. "Tell her to go. I must speak to you alone." Lauraine turns and makes a sign to the Sister. She leaves the room at once. Then Sir Francis turns and holds out in his hand the little paper that had held for her a message of eternal woe. "Is--is it true?" She bows her head. Words will not come. "You dropped it. I asked the woman to give it me," says her husband. "Lauraine, don't stay here for--for my sake; if it will comfort you or--him--go." A flush comes over the white, sad face, then fades and dies away. "My place is by you," she answers. "By me?" he echoes bitterly. "By the wretch whose selfishness and brutality have ruined your life? My God!" There is a long silence. He takes her hands and looks at her. "Even my death cannot atone now. I thought it might. It is true, is it not? You do--love--him?" "Yes," she answers simply. "But why speak of that now? The past is over and done with. You told me once I was only strong because I had been untempted. Ah! how little you knew!" "That he should die," mutters Sir Francis. "Young--brave--hopeful. For me--it is no matter. How is it, Lauraine? Tell me all!" "He was shot," she says, marvelling how she can speak so calmly--how dull and far away seems everything in and out of her life. "In Paris. Some dispute arose between him and--and a friend of Lady Jean Salomans'. They met in the Bois, and Keith was dangerously wounded. They say now there is--no hope." Oh, the weariness of the voice, the anguish of the white, sad face. "She," mutters Sir Francis. "Was this her vengeance?" Then he is silent again.