The man flashed the lantern light forward. It shone on a beautiful white face, fixed in unconsciousness, now, the dews of horror standing thick and wet on the brow, the lips bleeding where the pearly teeth had bitten them in anguish, the small, dimpled white hands clenched in the lace upon her breast that was frayed and torn with her frantic struggles at finding herself in that awful prison. But blessed unconsciousness had supervened, and she looked death-like indeed to the eyes that beheld her. "Looks like she might be gone, sure enough, this time sir," said Perkins, uneasily. "If she _is_, I'll kill _you_, d--n you!" cried the man. "I'll not be balked of my revenge like that. I'll glut it on somebody!" Even while speaking he bent down and laid his hand upon her heart. "No, she lives; I feel her heart beat faintly," he said. "Quick, Perkins, the cloak! It rains on her." "The rain will revive her," said Perkins, as he unfolded a long, dark waterproof cloak and handed it to his companion. The man lifted Queenie's slight form, and wrapped the long cloak over the bridal robe in which she had been buried. "Now, then," he said, putting a thick roll of bank-notes into the man's hand, "cover up the grave, and remove every trace of this night's work. And--_remember_, one word of _this_ to a living soul, and I'll send your black soul to the devil!" "Mum's the word, sir!" answered the man, beginning to lower the empty coffin back into the grave. His employer turned without another word and passed swiftly away through the rain and the darkness to the carriage that waited for him near the gates, bearing the unconscious girl in his arms. He entered the carriage, deposited the still unconscious Queenie on a seat in a recumbent attitude, and holding her head in his arms, was whirled rapidly away through the murky night. For an hour or more he rode thus, and the carriage stopped at length before a cottage embowered in trees on the banks of a broad, dark river. He lifted his burden, stepped through the gate, and the carriage whirled away. Hurrying up the steps, he paused on the low, ornate piazza that ran around the house, and rang the bell. The door was opened by a neat-looking woman of middle age, who held a lamp above her head. "Ah! it is you," was all she said. "Yes, it is I; and I have brought back your mistress, Mrs. Bowers, as I said I would, though you _did_ have the impudence to insinuate that I had made way with her," he answered, in a tone of rough pleasantry. "You are none too good to have done it," she answered, with a certain cool and familiar impertinence. "Confound your impudence--lead the way to her room," he said, carelessly. "She is ill and needs attention."