come to see the light at last, to know her
in her true colours! Oh, it was a black
crime! She is as guilty as any wretch that
has been sentenced and suffered
punishment. Is it fair or just that she is to
escape? Tell me that!"

"You take too harsh a view of Jessica's
behaviour."

"It is your view also. You know it, and
cannot deny it. Her proud spirit knows it
also, and she will not stay with you because
you will not acquit her. And I tell you,
Conway, you must not; you dare not. It
is the only expiation we can offer now. She
must be punished now, and by you. By-
and-by I will reckon with her."

Every instant he was growing more and
more excited, and his hand clutched
Conway's arm with fiercer and fiercer energy.
The latter saw that his companion was
scarcely safe company at that hour and
place, and tried to soothe him.

"Let us go back now," he said, "it is
growing late."

"Leave this spot, and on this day—the
day she died! Don't you remember it now?
It must be consecrated by some offering.
Oh, if she were here. Murderess!
murderess!"

Conway, growing more and more alarmed
every instant, tried to calm him. The other
went on, with a sort of fury:

"You had your part in the business also,
and you have only your escape by sacrificing
her. Up to this you have done well; but
if I see you attempt to interfere between
me and her, it will be your turn next. She
is a murderess. You know she is!"

"We shall settle all that later. You will
judge her more generously yet. We may
have done her wrong."

"Take care, take care, Conway," Dudley
said, turning furiously on him. "You are
not secure yourself. And if she tells me to
reckon with you, it shall be done, and
nothing shall save you. Do you think that
you are innocent? You, with your heartless
flicking with her dear affections;
you that were going to patch up your
battered fortunes by sacrificing her happiness.
It amused you, and profited you, and in a
man of lower birth would be called the act
of a scoundrel."

The other's face flushed up. "You can
scarcely know the force of what you are
saving. She knew very well the mixed
motives that led me to that choice, and a
share of her preference for me was owing
to dislike of Jessica."

"You slanderer! You low slanderer!
This finishes it. What you say is false—
false as your own double dealing self. You
dare add this to the rest; finish all by
meanly libelling her who you and yours
drove into the grave. Curses on you!
Curses on myself, that I stood by and let
all this happen! It will drive me mad."

Conway drew back hastily; he saw that
Dudley was in a paroxysm. Foam was on
his lips, his eyeballs bursting from his head,
his arms struck out. As Conway walked
away, Dudley's hands clutched at him,
and then tottering, he muttered, " Help!
help across the bridge!" and fell slowly
and stiffly to the ground. His head
struck against the base of the little cross,
and from a gash blood began to flow.
Conway saw with terror that the unhappy
madman was lying at his feet motionless, and
apparently lifeless.

All was still. No one was near, and it
was now perfectly dark. What was he to
do—where rush for help? Dudley had
gasped out something about the bridge;
but it was a spectral one across his own
brain. Conway knew not what to do. Help
could be got from the house; but how was
he to cross? All that was left for him was
to start off with all speed for the village,
and there get assistance. As he hurried
along, strange thoughts came upon him,
which alarmed him not a little. What if
Dudley should be dying there, and it should
be known that he had been with him? The
dislike of Dudley to him and to Jessica,
the incautious language he would use, and
his strange, ill-regulated temper, would give
the idea that a quarrel had taken place.
The blood—the cut! And the idea
made him shrink. Should he go back, or
go on? At that moment the unhappy
Dudley might be dead, or dying. And then
he recollected that he had not taken even
the most ordinary steps of precaution; that
he had not raised him, or even loosed his
collar. He stopped again and again irresolutely,
but still hurried on after a moment's
delay, and at last got near the village which
was at the gate of Panton Castle.

He crossed the stone bridge, and stopped
there a moment to take breath, looking up
the river, which stretched away in a straight
line for a mile and more. As he leaned
against the parapet, it all flashed upon him
in a moment. SHE WAS INNOCENT! By
some strange coincidence, the very
incidents of her crisis had been almost
exactly repeated in his case. He almost
gave a cry of joy at the thought. Others
might surely judge him as he had judged
her: there might be no earthly witness
on whom he might call to come and