"and her name was Mercy--her name was Mercy--Mercy Madras. I loved her.
I sinned for her sake. A message came that she was dead to me; but I
could not believe that it was so altogether, for I had knelt at her feet
and worshipped her. I went to her, but she sent me away angrily. Years
passed. 'She will have relented now,' I said, and I followed her, and
found her as I thought. But it was not she; it was a wicked ghost in
her beautiful body--nothing more. And then I turned away and cursed
all things, because I knew that I should never see my wife again. Mercy
Madras was dead. ... Can you not hear the curses?"

Still she was unmoved. She said with a cruel impatience in her voice:
"Yes, Mercy Madras is dead. How then can she forgive? What could her
ghost--as you call her--do, but offer the thing which her husband--when
he was living--loved so well that he sold himself into bondage,
and wrecked his world and hers for it--Money? Well, money is at his
disposal, as she said before--"

But she spoke no more. The man in him straight way shamed her into
silence with a look. She bowed her head, yet not quite in shame, for
there was that in her eyes which made her appear as if his suffering was
a gratuitous infliction. But at this moment he was stronger, and he drew
her eyes up by the sheer force of his will. "I need no money now," he
coldly declared. "I need nothing--not even you; and can you fancy that,
after waiting all these years for this hour, money would satisfy me?
Do you know," he continued slowly and musingly, "I can look upon you
now--yes, at this moment--with more indifference than you ever showed to
me? A moment ago I loved you: now I think you horrible; because you are
no woman; you have a savage heart. And some day you will suffer as I do,
so terribly that even the brazen serpent could not cure you. Then you
will remember me."

He was about to leave her, but he had not taken two steps before he
turned, with all the anger and the passion softened in his eyes, and
said, putting his hand out towards yet not to touch her, "Good-bye--for
the last time." And then the look was such as might be turned upon a
forgiven executioner.

"Good-night," she replied, and she did not look into his eyes, but out
to sea. Her eyes remained fixed upon its furtive gloom. She too was
furtive and gloomy at this moment. They were both sleek, silent, and
remorseless. There was a slight rustle to her dress as she changed her
position. It was