" he said in a low constrained
voice. "If my life could have saved his, I would have given it."

A warm golden light seemed suddenly to banish the misty gloom of the
damp plantation. The color rushed into her cheeks, and her heart leaped
for joy. She heard, and she believed.

"Thank God!" she cried, holding out both her hands to him with a sudden
impulsive gesture. "Come! let us go now."

She was smiling softly up at him, and her eyes were wet with tears. He
took one quick passionate step towards her, seizing her hands, and
drawing her unresistingly towards him. In a moment she would have been
in his arms--already a great trembling had seized her, and her will had
fled. But that moment was not yet.

Something seemed to have turned him to stone. He dropped her fingers as
though they were burning him. A vacant light eclipsed the passion which
had shone a moment before in his eyes. Suddenly he raised his hands to
the sky in a despairing gesture.

"God forgive me!" he cried. "God forgive me!"

For very shame at his touch, and her ready yielding to it, her eyes had
fallen to the ground. When she raised them he was gone. There was the
sound of his retreating footsteps, the quick opening and closing of the
hand-gate, and through the trees she saw him walking swiftly over the
cliffs. Then she turned away, with her face half hidden in her hands,
and the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

Again there was silence, only broken by the louder roar of the incoming
tide, and the faint rustling of the leaves. Suddenly it was broken by a
human voice, and a human figure slowly arose from a cramped posture
behind a clump of shrubs.

"Holy Moses! if this ain't a queer start," remarked Mr. Benjamin Levy,
shaking the wet from his clothes, and slowly filling a pipe. "Wants him
copped for murder, and yet tries to get him to make up to her. She's a
deep un, she is. I wonder if she was in earnest! If only she was, I
think I see my way to a real good thing--a real good thing," he
repeated, meditatively.

CHAPTER XV

A LITERARY CELEBRITY

It was Tuesday afternoon, and the Countess of Meltoun was at home to the
world--that is to say, her world. The usual throng of men of fashion,
guardsmen, literary men, and budding politicians were bending over the
chairs of their feminine acquaintances, or standing about in little
groups talking amongst themselves. The clatter of teacups was mingled
with the soft hum of voices; the pleasan