he told me."

"'I lingered in the island for several days, staying at the monastery,
unwilling to go away, and yet frustrated in every attempt I made
to enter the castle. On the fourth day, at sunrise, I was awakened
suddenly by the deep tolling of the castle bell. I dressed hastily,
and hurried up there; but I was thrust from the door, and forbidden to
enter. I learned the truth, however, from one of the servants. Irene
was dead. On the next day I saw the little funeral procession
start from the castle, and directly they entered the grounds of the
monastery I joined them. The old Count, bowed and aged with grief,
stayed the ceremony, and bade them, with a sudden flash of his old
anger, thrust me from the place. But the priest by whose side I had
taken my stand raised his hand, and forbade them to touch me. I was
in sanctuary,--my feet were on holy ground--and though the Count of
Cruta, and Count Hirsfeld who knelt by his side, trembled with anger
at my presence, I remained, and on my knees by my wife's grave I
uttered the first prayer my lips had framed since childhood. Through
the pine trees which fringed the cliffs, I could see the path where
she and I had met in the days when I was her father's guest, and when
I had knelt at her feet a passionate lover. The sunlight flashed upon
the blue waters below, and the seabirds flew screaming around our
heads. It was all just as it had been in the old days; the same for
me, but never more for her. The long black coffin was lowered into the
grave, and reverently Count Hirsfeld stepped forward and covered it
with armfuls of exquisite white flowers, whose perfume made faint the
odorous air. And I had no flowers to throw, nothing but the tribute
of a passionate grief, and a heart well-nigh broken with sorrow and
remorse.

"'The ceremony was over, and the black-robed monks and priest had
passed away in a long, solemn procession. Her father, Count Hirsfeld,
and I remained there alone; and over Irene's grave I leaned
forward, speaking gently and humbly to him, praying for one word of
forgiveness. His only answer was a look of scorn, and he turned away
from me with loathing. He would not hear me speak. To him, I was his
daughter's murderer.

"'I left the island that night, and returned to England. For several
years I lived a very retired life, attending to my duties upon the
estate and seldom travelling beyond it. The memory of Irene seemed to
haunt me. But as time went on, a ch