clean over her, the brute of a horse—ssh—I
can't bear to think of it—sending one of his
hoofs straight into her face as he passed."

"And her arm is broken, too, is it not?"

"Yes, I believe so. That may, however, have
happened when she fell; but the other thing,
that fearful mutilation of the poor young lady's
face, was done by a kick from that horse of
Sneyd's, and by nothing else in the world. I saw
it with my own eyes."

THE REST OF THIS MANUSCRIPT HE HAD PUT
INTO

HIS WRITING-DESK.

SOME years after these things had happened,
I stood on the summit of one of those mighty
mountains which form a boundary line, such as
few countries can boast of, between Switzerland
and Italy.

It was evening, and I was gazing with all my
eyes into that strange receptacle for the dead,
which the monks of St. Bernard have placed at
the door of their convent, and where the bodies
of those unfortunates who have perished in the
snow are preserved. They are embalmed by the
highly rarefied air of that height, and do not
decay. The Egyptian mummies are not more
perfectly kept.

I was so absorbed in these strange figures,
that I scarcely noticed there was any one standing
beside me, until I suddenly heard my own
name pronounced by a voice familiar to me.
I turned and found myself face to face with
Jack Fortescue.

"Well," he said, almost before we had
exchanged greetings, "this is the most extraordinary
thing, the most marvellous combination of
coincidences, that ever took place since the
creation of the world! Who do you think is in
there?" pointing to the convent.

"Who," I asked. "In Heaven's name, who?"

"In the strangers' parlour, there, you will
find, at this moment, your old acquaintance Lord
Sneyd—and, what is more, a new acquaintance,
if you choose to make it, in the shape of
that nobleman's illustrious consort."

"What, the Irish-Italian singer, who, as I
saw by Galignani, had managed to become Lady
Sneyd?"

"The same."

"And your wife—where is she?"

"Mary is with me. Is it not extraordinary,
incredible almost, that we should all be under
the same roof again? Do you remember the last
time?"

"Remember it? Shall I ever forget it!"

"Of course," Fortescue went on, "I can't
let her come in contact with those people, so
she keeps her room, or rather her cell. It is
awfully cold, but anything is better than such a
meeting."

"But you will let me see her?"

"You. Why, of course," Fortescue answered.
"How can you ask?"

"I will ask something else, then," I
continued. "I will ask you to tell me some of the
particulars of what took place after I left Creel,
and went abroad. My letters from England and
the papers told me, to my great delight, of your
marriage with Miss Crawcour, and also of Lord
Sneyd's wonderful match. But I want to know
more than these bare facts."

"There is really not much to tell," said
Fortescue. "When I got your letter telling me
of that terrible disaster at Creel, I was at
Chatham, and was, in fact, just negotiating for
an exchange into a regiment that was going
abroad at once. Your letter altered all my
plans. Do what I would, the thought of that
poor maimed figure haunted me, the love which
I resisted when she was in the full pride and
glory of her beauty, became now that pity was
mixed up with it, now that this fearful trouble
had come upon her, a thing that I could no
longer hold out against. I felt that I must go
back to Creel. And I went.

"When I got there, I found that that infernal
brute and scoundrel, Sneyd, had left the place.
Very soon after the accident—you know that
he had never actually spoken to the duke about
Mary, or said anything definite to her—well,
very soon after the accident, he discovered that
it was actually necessary that he should pay a
visit to some estates of his in Ireland. He left
the castle, to come back there no more. He
went first of all to Ireland, and then was absent
on the Continent for a considerable length of
time. There was an end of him. At Naples,
he became entangled in the snares of a regular
designing adventuress, and out of those snares
he has never escaped. I wish him joy.

"Well, I stayed on and on at Creel. It was
a quiet delightful time. After the accident
everybody left, but Greta—he and I, you know,
were always great friends—the duke pressed
me to stay that he might have somebody to shoot
with, and I stayed on, and on.

"At that time, too, I saw more of the duchess
than I had ever done before, and one day we
began talking about the accident and about
Sneyd's behaviour, and I ventured to say that I
thought that if Mary had broken every bone in
her skin, she would still have had reason to
congratulate herself on being thereby delivered
from a marriage with the wretched creature that
he had proved himself to be. The duchess did
not differ from me, and somehow from that day
a strange kind of hope and happiness seemed to
take possession of me, a curious indefinite
delight such as I had never felt before.

"At length a day came when I was allowed
to see her. And when I went into the room"—
at this point Fortescue's voice faltered a little—
"when I saw her poor arm bound up, and half
her sweet face covered with bandages—I knelt
down by the side of the sofa, and, in short, I
made a fool of myself. The duchess was present,
but she was fairly beat, and——Well, very soon
I was discussing ways and means with the duke.

"There never was anything like that man's
kindness. Besides making Mary a very handsome
present indeed, which he declared he
had always intended to do, he set himself to
work to get me such an appointment as should