art to see him like this, so callous, so
regardless of all I have suffered on his account. I don't blame him. He
is not himself. His brain is weakened by his poor body. No. The person I
do blame is that accursed woman who allowed him to suffer for her, who
skulked behind him for two endless years, who let him sacrifice his life
for hers, who never had the courage to say the word, and take her crime
upon herself, and get him out of his living grave."

Fay became cold as death in the May sunshine. What ghost was this which
was taking form before her? What voice was this, how could it be
Wentworth's voice, which was saying at last aloud with passion what that
other accusing voice within had so hoarsely, so persistently whispered
from its cell, during the long years? Her brain reeled.

"The Marchesa did repent," said Magdalen.

Wentworth laughed harshly.

"Oh, yes. On her deathbed, in order to save her soul. She wanted to be
right with the next world. But how could she go on, year in year out,
letting him burn and freeze alternately in that vile cell? She must have
known, someone must have told her, what his life was like. How well I
remember, Fay, your saying: 'Why does not the real murderer confess? How
can he go on letting an innocent man wear out his life in prison,
bearing the punishment of his horrible crime?' How little we both knew.
I always supposed the assassin was a man, a common criminal of the
lowest order. Yet it seems there are women in the world, educated,
refined women, who can remorselessly pinch a man's life out of him with
their white hands. The Marchesa has murdered two people, first her
husband, and then my boy, my foolish, quixotic, generous Michael. May
God forgive her! I never will!"

CHAPTER XXXII

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you.

--W. B. YEATS.

Je veux aimer, mais je ne veux pas souffrir.

--A. DE MUSSET.

In the days that followed the Bishop's visit Michael's mind showed signs
of reasserting itself. He was as quickly exhausted as ever, and with
fatigue came the old apathy and helpless confusion of ideas. But his
languid intelligence had intervals of increasing clearness. His face
took on at these times a strained expression, as if he dimly saw
something with which he felt powerless to cope. We see such a look
sometimes, very piteous in its impotence, in the faces of the old, when
an echo reaches them of the anguish of the world in which they once