of my confession, but no church has a more worthy minister. If you
can absolve me in the name of your Redeemer, mine will pardon me. We look
at Him, it is true, with different eyes, but He is the Saviour of us
both, nevertheless." A contradictory reply struggled for utterance in the
strict Jacobite's mind, but at such a moment he felt he must repress it;
he only answered:

"Speak, daughter, I am listening."

And she poured forth all her soul, as though he had been a priest of her
own creed, and his eyes grew moist as he heard this confession of a pure
and loving heart, yearning for all that was highest and best. He promised
her the mercy of the Redeemer, and when he had ended with "Amen," and
blessed her, he looked down at the ground for some minutes and presently
said, "Follow me, Child."

"Whither?" she asked in surprise; for she thought that her last hour had
already come, and that he was about to lead her away to the place of
execution, or to her watery, ever-flowing tomb; but he smiled as he
replied: "No, child. To-day I have only the pleasing duty of blessing
your betrothal before God; if only you will promise not to estrange your
husband from the faith of his fathers--for what will not a man sacrifice
to win the love of a woman.--You promise? Then I will take you to your
Orion."

He rapped on the door of the cell, and when the warder had opened it he
whispered his orders; Paula followed him silently and with blushing
cheeks, and in a few minutes she was clasped to her lover's breast while,
for the first time--and perhaps the last--their lips met in a kiss.

The prelate gave them a few minutes together; when he had blessed them
both and solemnized their betrothal, he led her back to her cell.
However, she had hardly time to thank him out of the fulness of her
overflowing heart, when a town-watchman came to fetch him to see
Susannah; her last hour was at hand, if not already past. John at once
went with the messenger, and Paula drew a deep breath as she saw him
depart. Then she threw herself on to her nurse's shoulders, crying:

"Now, come what may! Nothing can divide us; not even death!"

CHAPTER XXIV.

The bishop was too late. He found the widow Susannah a corpse; standing
at the head of the bed was little Katharina, as pale as death,
speechless, tearless, utterly annihilated. He kindly tried to cheer her,
and to speak words of comfort; but she pushed him away, tore herself from
him, and before he