I came away, not exulting, but awed and
subdued.

I returned to Marian's bedside, and from that time I did not leave
her till the end. Occasionally she would talk to me in a low, sweet
voice, calling back memories of the old town of Yarmouth and the
pleasant scenes of her youth. Once she spoke to me of myself.

"I have treated you very ill, Athelstane. I knew that I could never
repay you for your love, but it made me proud to have it; I liked to
count upon your devotion to me, and I deceived and tempted you."

I tried to protest, but she would have it so.

"I have been wrong in everything I did to you," she said. "I ought
never to have treated you as a friend, but as a stranger. Then you
would have grown out of your foolish passion, and have forgotten me;
for, believe me, Athelstane, I was not fit for you, nor you for me.
Beneath your hot temper and adventurous spirit, in which you resemble
your cousin, you are a very different nature. You are a Puritan at
bottom, and your conscience will not let you rest except in sober,
honest ways of life. It is better that you should take a wife from
among your own people, one whose nature is in accord with what is
deepest and best in you, and not with what is worst. Forgive me,
Athelstane, and forget me, as one that crossed your life by an evil
chance and wrought you only harm."

But that, as I told her with tears, I never could do, nor would
believe. And even now, when I look back across the years with calmer
vision and a wiser judgment, I am still glad that I knew and loved
Marian Rising, and never wish to root the memory of that wild romance
out of my heart.

She spoke to me also of my cousin Rupert, saying that she had long ago
forgiven--indeed, I think she never was really able to resent--his
wrongs done towards her, and asking me to do the same. I assured her
that I had long ago buried all remains of ill-will between us, and I
promised her that I would take him back to England with me, and
endeavour to make his peace with his father at Lynn.

Soon afterwards she became very weak, and, seeing that the last moment
was approaching, I fetched Rupert in to her. He stood with his head
bowed above the bed, his hair streaked with grey and the marks of the
agony he had suffered on his face, while Marian caught hold of his
hand, and, with the feeble remains of her strength, carried it to her
lips and kissed it. In the doorway stood an Indian, gazing at the
sight with solemn, u