length came a letter from his valet--a deep black-bordered
letter--which announced the terrible news of the murder of his master by
a Mexican Indian woman, supposed to be mad. There were no details, but
only the explanation that he, the valet--who had seen the murder, which
was the work of an instant--was detained in New Orleans as a witness for
the prosecution, and should not be able to return home until after the
trial. It was two months after the latter that the valet came back to
England in charge of his late master's effects, which had all been
sealed by the New Orleans authorities, and reached us intact. Only the
family talisman was missing, and could nowhere be found. And as the
family's prosperity, and even continuity, was supposed to depend upon
the possession of that ring, its loss was considered only a less
misfortune than my uncle's death. Later, my uncle's remains were brought
home from New Orleans and deposited in the family vault at Cumbervale
Castle.

"The ring was never again heard of. On the death of my grandfather, the
seventh duke, my father, who was the second son, succeeded to the title.
But fortune seemed to have deserted us. By a series of unlucky land
speculations my father lost nearly all his riches, which calamities
preyed upon his mind so that his health broke down and he sank into
premature old age and died. I came into the title with but little to
support it. So that when I honestly loved a lady believed to be wealthy,
my motives were supposed to be mercenary."

The Iron King might have felt this thrust, but he gave no sign. The duke
continued:

"My after life does not concern the story of the ring. On learning,
since my return from long travel in the East, that your fair
granddaughter was widowed nearly two years before, you know I wrote to
you asking her address, with a view of renewing my old suit. You replied
by telling me that Mrs. Rothsay made her home with you, and inviting me
to visit you. I refer to this only to keep the sequence of events in
order. I came. Yesterday morning I went to Scythia's Roost, climbed from
that shelf to the top of the mountain and viewed the scene from it.
After I came down again to Scythia's Roost I sat down to rest. The sun
was sinking behind the ridge, but through a crevice in the rocks a
ray--'a line of golden light'--pierced and seemed to strike fire and
bring out an answering ray from some living light left in the ashes. I
went to see what it was,