'Oh, to think I had Marie in the boat, and never knew it! Oh, to think I should have carried her all over those leagues of ocean, to resign her for ever into those awful arms!' The two figures on the wharf came out black against the grey dawn-light in the sky. From the head and shoulders of the man the covering had fallen away, and the woman now stood divested of the furs. The figure which had worn the cloak was that of a skeleton; the woman he had landed was his Marie. The skeleton held her tightly in its arms. She stretched forth her arms to him entreating delivery. Gradually he drifted farther and farther away from that awful group. In another minute the wharf would be out of sight. He turned round, and sought to seize the upturned boat. He lost sight of everything. There was a shout of the waters in his ear. He knew he was drowning, and he thanked God. CHAPTER III. DAYLIGHT. With a cry he sprang sitting up, and looked around him. 'A dream!' he whispered. 'A dream! What a hideous dream! Ah, that is the most terrible dream I have ever had. God, forgive me. God pardon me, if in one brief moment yesterday I allowed a question of any of Your inconceivable qualities to enter my mind.' He flung himself out of bed and dropped on his knees, facing the light. He threw his hands up to Heaven beseechingly, imploringly, and prayed with all the fervour of his nature, asking for strength and grace and undying faith. He covered his face with his hands, bowed his head to the floor, and wailed for mercy, for forgiveness. He admitted that for one moment yesterday his faith had been shaken. He admitted this with all the humility of his soul. He was unworthy to raise his eyes to Heaven, he who had sinned so heinously; but the All-Merciful might show him mercy. Mercy had been promised to all who humbled themselves and asked for mercy. He lay there, prone, full of pitiful sorrow and passionate importunity. Grant him mercy, grant him mercy, grant him hope! Here he paused a long time. His thoughts made no progress. After a time they took a new form, and a wilder fervour of entreaty burst from him. 'Bowed down, body and soul, will I remain all day, beseeching Thee not to visit this sin upon her, beseeching Thee not to punish me through her happiness.' He felt a flush dash through him, and he raised up his head in abject entreaty. 'No, no, no! Judge me not, O Lord! I am not moved by mixed motives. I do not place an earthly being between Thee and me. But if it be Thy will, spare her and smite me; spare her and smite me. If she must suffer, Thy will be done. Thy will be done. Thy will be done.'