after minute passed, and she could say
nothing. From time to time, Lord Redin glanced sideways at her. He
breathed hard once or twice, and his hands strained upon his stick as
though they would break it in two.

"Then she died," he said. When he had spoken the three words, he
shivered from head to foot, and was silent.

Still Francesca could not speak. The sacrilege of the deed was horrible
in itself. To her, who had grown up to look upon Maria Braccio as a holy
woman, cut off in her youth by a frightful death, the truth was
overwhelmingly awful. She strove within herself to find something upon
which she could throw the merest shadow of an extenuation, but she could
find nothing.

"You understand now why, as an honourable man, I wished to tell you the
truth about myself," he said, speaking almost coldly in the effort he
was making at self-control. "I could not ask for your friendship until I
had told you."

Francesca turned her white face slowly towards him in the dusk, and her
lips moved, but she did not speak. She could not in that first moment
find the words she wanted. She felt that she shrank from him, that she
never wished to touch his hand again. Doubtless, in time, she might get
over the first impression. She wished that he would leave her to think
about it.

"Can you ever be my friend now?" he asked gravely.

"Your friend--" she stopped, and shook her head sadly. "I--I am
afraid--" she could not go on.

Lord Redin rose slowly to his feet.

"No. I am afraid not," he said.

He waited a moment, but there was no reply.

"May I take you to your carriage?" he asked gently.

"No, thank you. No--that is--I am going home in a cab. I would rather be
alone--please."

"Then good-bye."

The lonely man went away and left her there. His head was bent, and she
thought that he walked unsteadily, as she watched him. Suddenly a great
wave of pity filled her heart. He looked so very lonely. What right had
she to judge him? Was she perfect, because he called her good? She
called him before he turned the great pillar of the dome.

"Lord Redin! Lord Redin!"

But her voice was weak, and in the vast, dim place it did not reach him.
He went on alone, past the high altar, round the pillar, down the nave.
The benediction service was not quite over yet, but every one who was
not listening to the music had left the church. He went towards the door
by which he had entered. Before going out he paused, and looked towards