tell you more. Enough, for you to know why
I'm now leaving you. I must--I must!"

Half distracted, she rejoins:--

"You love your mother's memory more than you love me!"

Without thought the reproach escapes--wrung from her in her agony. Soon
as made, she regrets, and would recall it. For she sees the painful
effect it has produced.

He anticipates her, saying:--

"You wrong me, Helen, in word, as in thought. Such could not be. The
two are different. You should know that. As I tell you, I've sworn to
avenge my mother's death--sworn it over her grave. Is that not an oath
to be kept? I ask--I appeal to you!"

Her hand, that has still been keeping hold of his, closes upon it with
firmer grasp, while her eyes become fixed upon him in look more relying
than ever.

The selfishness of her own passion shrinks before the sacredness of that
inspiring him, and quick passes away. With her love is now mingled
admiration. Yielding to it, she exclaims:

"Go--go! Get the retribution you seek. Perhaps 'tis right. God
shielding you, you'll succeed, and come back to me, true as you've been
to your mother. If not, I shall soon be dead."

"If not, you may know I am. Only death can hinder my return. And now,
for a while, farewell!"

Farewell! And so soon. Oh! it is afflicting! So far she has borne
herself with the firmness derived from a strong, self-sustaining nature.
But hearing this word--wildest of all--she can hold out no longer. Her
strength gives way, and flinging herself on his breast, she pours forth
a torrent of tears.

"Come, Helen!" he says, kissing them from her cheeks, "be brave, and
don't fear for me. I know my man, and the work cut out for me. By
sheer carelessness I've twice let him have his triumph over me. But he
won't the third time. When we next meet 'twill be the last hour of his
life. Something whispers this--perhaps the spirit of my mother? Keep
up your courage, sweet! Go back with Sime, who'll see you safe into
your father's arms. When there, you can offer up a prayer for my
safety, and if you like, one for the salvation of Dick Darke's soul.
For sure as I stand here, ere another sun has set it will go to its
God."

With these solemn words the scene ends, only one other exchanged between
them--the wild "Farewell!"

This in haste, for at the moment Woodley comes forward, exclaiming:--

"Be quick, Charley! We must git away from hyar instanter. A minuit
more in this gl