lasted my health and life. But the fault is mine all the same.
Your conduct was noble throughout and you did not deserve it. I repeat
that the fault is all my own. I am willing to expiate it. I am content
to die. My death will end everything. Farewell, Roddy. One parting kiss
and your forgiveness."

Strange that through this speech, sounding like the music of a broken
harp, Roderick remained perfectly cool and collected. With acutest
perception he understood everything now. The black cloud was rent and
light poured down upon him. It was a light from heaven, for it warmed
his soul to heroism.

"Pauline," he said in gentlest accents, "the spasm is past and I can
speak to you, as of old. My words shall be few, because I see that this
effort has spent you. You have done an injustice to yourself and me. My
forgiveness, dearest? You have none to ask. You have done me no wrong. I
had no right over you. We have known each other for long years and have
loved each other?"

"Ah! Roddy, ah! how well!" sweet and low, as waters murmuring over
pebbles.

"Yes, how well, Pauline. But love is not our own. It is disposed of by a
higher will. We had hoped that it might end in something else--at least
such was my hope."

"And mine, Roddy."

"But if this may not be, we must bow to the almighty power. Man is not
the arbiter of his destiny. False to me Pauline? No truer heart ever
breathed the air of heaven. You could not be false to any one. Oh!
dearest, withdraw all these bitter words. Remember me, remember your old
friend. May the blessing of God attend you. Go forth into a broader
atmosphere, and amid brighter scenes to recover your health and that
beauty which I have adored. Farewell, Pauline, farewell."

She heard him not. The poor shattered spirit, overcome by exhaustion,
had drifted away into a merciful oblivion. He kissed her on the forehead
and glided out of the room. At the door he met M. Belmont, whose hand he
silently clasped. Then he stepped out into the world, a new man,
purified as if by fire.

XIII.

RODERICK'S LAST BATTLE.

The next morning dawned bright and balmy. At an early hour, a closed
carriage slowly approached the massive arch of St. John's Gate,
accompanied by four or five persons on foot, among whom were Captain
Bouchette, the venerable physician of the Belmont family, and
Lieutenant-Governor Cramahe. The presence of the latter personage was a
high honour to his old friend Belmont. When the veh