me
Secretary for mercy."

"Mercy--mercy!" shouted the General, his pale face growing first red and
then purple from excitement. "Who talks of mercy to that ruffian? But
Harbury"--naming the Home Secretary for the time being--"Harbury will
stand firm; Harbury will never yield! I would take my oath that Harbury
won't give in! Such a miscarriage of justice was never heard of! Don't
talk to me of it! Harbury knows his duty; and the man has been
punished--the man is dead!"

Hubert's voice trembled a little as he spoke.

"The man is not dead, sir," he said.

The General turned upon him fiercely.

"Was not this morning fixed for the--is this not the twenty-fifth?" he
said. "What do you mean?"

There was a moment's silence, during which he read the answer to his
question in Hubert's melancholy eyes. Miss Vane held her breath; she saw
her brother stagger as if a sudden dizziness had seized him; he caught
at the back of an antique heavily-carved oak chair for support. In the
pause she noted involuntarily the beauty of the golden sunshine that
filled every corner of the luxuriously-appointed room, intensifying the
glow of color in the Persian carpet, illuminating as with fire the
brass-work and silver-plate which decorated the table and the sideboard,
vividly outlining in varied tones of delicate hues the masses of June
roses that filled every vase and bowl in the room. The air was full of
perfume--nothing but beauty met the eye; and yet, in spite of this
material loveliness, how black and evil, how unutterably full of
sadness, did the world appear to Leonora Vane just then! And, if she
could have seen into the heart of one at least of the men who stood
before her, she would almost have died of grief and shame.

"You don't mean," stammered the General, "that the ruffian who murdered
my brother--has been--reprieved?"

"It is said, sir, that imprisonment for life is a worse punishment than
death," said Hubert gently. The face of no man--even of one condemned to
life-long punishment--could have expressed deeper gloom than his own as
he said the words. Yet mingling with the gloom there was something
inflexible that gave it almost a repellent character. It was as if he
would have thrown any show or pity back into the face of those who
offered it, and defied the world to sympathise with him on account of
some secret trouble which he had brought upon himself.

"Worse than death--worse than death!" repeated the old man. "I do n