priest.

"You expected Genifrede?" asked Toussaint.

"I did--naturally."

"She is asleep, and she must not be awakened. You would be the last to
wish it, Moyse."

"Must not be awakened," repeated Moyse to himself, with something of
doubt in his tone--something of triumph in his countenance.

"Perhaps you think," said Toussaint, fixing his eyes on the young man's
face, "that she cannot be awakened. Perhaps you think that she may have
drunk the red water?"

"She has told, then. A curse upon woman's cowardice and woman's
treachery! Who would not have sworn that if ever a woman loved,
Genifrede loved me? And now, when put to the test--"

"Now, when put to the test," interrupted Toussaint, "my poor child was
prepared to die with you, though you had perplexed her mind with
superstition--terrified her with spells and charms--"

"You do not know her, uncle. She herself told me that she dared not die
with me, though it was the only--"

"And you wished it--you required it! You have striven to destroy her,
body and soul, because you yourself were lost--and now you curse a
woman's cowardice and treachery! I leave you with Father Laxabon.
Hasten to confess and cleanse your soul, Moyse; for never soul needed it
more. I leave you my pity and my forgiveness, and I engage for
Genifrede's."

"Stop!" cried Moyse, "I have something to ask. Who has dared to keep
Genifrede from me? She is mine."

"Think of her no more, except to implore Heaven's pardon for your intent
towards her." And Toussaint produced the ivory ring and phial.

"Yes," exclaimed Moyse, "with that ring we obtained that water, which we
were to have drunk together."

"Here, then, I break the bond by which she was yours." And Toussaint
crushed the ring to dust with the heel of his boot, and dashed the phial
against the ceiling, from whence the poisonous water sprinkled the
floor.

"You spoke of treachery just now," said Moyse. "How do you propose to
answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?"

"Be silent, my poor son," said Father Laxabon. "Do not spend your
remaining moments in aggravating your crimes."

"A few minutes' patience, father. I never before ventured to speak
freely to my uncle. Not on account of any severity of his--he never was
severe to me--but on account of a certain awe I felt of him--an awe
which the events of this day have had a wonderful power to dispel."

"It is well," said Toussaint. "There should be no