ing, and the efficacy of prayer. To say
that she did not yet feel the liveliest love for Raoul, all that
tenderness which constitutes so large a portion of woman's nature, would
be untrue; but her mind was made up to the worst, and her thoughts were
of another state of being.

A long pause occurred, in which Raoul remained stead-fastly gazing at
the starry canopy above.

"It is remarkable, Ghita," he said, at length, "that I--Raoul Yvard--the
corsair--the man of wars and tempests combats and hairbreadth
escapes--should be dying here, on this rock, with all those stars
looking down upon me, as it might be, from your heaven, seeming to
smile upon me!"

"Why not _your_ heaven, as well as mine, Raoul?" Ghita answered
tremulously. "It is as vast as He who dwells in it--whose throne it
is--and can contain all who love Him, and seek his mercy."

"Dost thou think one like me would be received into his presence,
Ghita?"

"Do not doubt it--free from all error and weakness Himself, his Holy
Spirit delights in the penitent and the sorrowful. Oh! dearest, dearest
Raoul, if thou _wouldst_ but pray!"

A gleam like that of triumph glowed on the face of the wounded man; and
Ghita, in the intensity of her expectation, rose and stood over him, her
own features filled with a momentary hope.

"Mon Feu-Follet!" exclaimed Raoul, letting the tongue reveal the
transient thought which brought the gleam of triumph to his countenance.
"Thou, at least, hast escaped! These English will not count thee among
their victims, and glut their eyes on thy charming proportions!"

Ghita felt a chill at her heart. She fell back on her seat, and
continued watching her lover's countenance with a feeling of despair,
though inextinguishable tenderness was still crowding around her soul.
Raoul heard the movement; and turning his head he gazed at the girl for
quite a minute, with a portion of that intense admiration that used to
gleam from his eyes in happier moments.

"It is better as it is, Ghita," he said, "than that I should live
without thee. Fate has been kind in thus ending my misery."

"Oh, Raoul I there is no fate but the holy will of God. Deceive not
thyself at this awful moment; bow down thy proud spirit in humility, and
turn to Him for succor!"

"Poor Ghita!--Well, thine is not the only innocent mind by millions that
hath been trammelled by priests; and, I suppose, what hath commenced
with the beginning will last till the end."

"The begi