his solicitude. Rondelet wrapped her quietly in his own coat and leaned back in the carriage, absently watching the woman who sat beside him with hands closely locked and wild eyes staring out into the night.
CHAPTER II.
It was a relief to Philip Rondelet when the carriage stopped after a half hour's drive, before a small house of the meanest appearance. No matter what might lie before him, it could not be worse than that drive had been through the absolute darkness of the night with these two strange companions.
The young man had not spoken during the whole drive, and the woman, save for sudden bursts of passionate rage or grief, made no sound.
They were evidently expected at the hut, for the door was opened a few inches and a voice asked, "Has he come?"
"Yes, yes, they are both here," answered the stranger. "Quick! let us in, for God's sake; we have seen enough of this accursed night from outside." As he spoke, the young man pushed his way into the house, leaving the woman and Rondelet to follow him. They found themselves in a low bare room, where a fire burned smokily on the hearth.
"Where is he?" asked the woman in a low voice, speaking for the first time. She was, judging from her appearance, of Spanish extraction, and she spoke English with some hesitation.
"Above there," answered the man who had opened the door, a young physician whom Rondelet recognized as an acquaintance.
"I will go to him," said the woman, moving rapidly to the foot of the ladder leading to the loft.
"Stand back, will you? You can't see him till the doctors say 't will do no harm. Have n't you done him enough mischief already?"
The young man spoke roughly, almost brutally, to her, and pushed her from the ladder with no gentle hand. The woman sank on the floor before the fire without a word, and the young doctor led the way up the ladder after barricading the door firmly. He had taken the only light in the room, and Rondelet stopped for an instant to throw an armful of brush upon the dying fire. The woman thanked him with a mute gesture, and he followed the two men to the upper room. It was as desolate as the one he had just quitted. On a couch in the centre of the attic lay the man. On a table near the bed were surgical appliances, a roll of bandages, an ewer of water, and an empty pistol-case. On the floor, near the door lay a heap of torn clothing which seemed to have been cut from the body. Beside the patient crouched a huge mastiff, with one paw placed upon the bed. The creature's eyes were fixed on his master's livid face; he acknowledged their entrance by a quick side glance, but never stirred from his post. The wounded man was a stranger to Rondelet; the latter saw only that he was young, possibly twenty-four years of age, and proceeded to examine the wound. It was in the left breast, and a short examination showed that it was fatal; a few hours at most were all of life left to him. Gently replacing the bandages, Rondelet smoothed the pillow of the dying man and applied a strong restorative to his lips. In a few minutes the patient's eyes opened. He looked in Rondelet's face, and then said faintly, "You are the other doctor? Best tell them it 's all up with me. I knew it from the first. Therese, is she here? Jean, you promised."
His breath failed him; the two physicians bent over him. In a moment he was easier.
"Is it true, Rondelet? Tell me, is there no hope?" It was Jean who spoke, in an undertone.
"Not the slightest; it will soon be over."
"It cannot hurt him to see that she-devil downstairs?"
"He is past hurting, poor fellow. If he wants to see her—it is her name he just spoke?"
"Yes."
"It can do no harm; send the woman up."
"Mind you stay there, both of you; do you hear? She is not to be trusted alone with him," said the man who had been called Jean, as he left the room.
"Therese," groaned the sufferer.
She was beside him as he spoke her name—a splendid figure, thrilling with life and passionate love or anger, beautiful as a young tigress.
She fell upon her knees at the bedside; and lifting his helpless hand in both of hers, bathed it with tears and kisses. Rondelet would have left them alone together, but remembering the warning, turned his face to the wall; the younger surgeon followed his example. But human sympathy was too strong for them; a minute had not passed before both men turned and gazed upon those two figures, one so full of life, the other so near to death. The woman was speaking rapidly in a low voice, and the man was lying with closed eyes. He turned his face from hers and sighed wearily.
"What does it matter to me now, Therese? One thing you must hear and understand—I was to blame. Do you hear? It is my last word—I was to blame. The men will all tell you so; I forced him to fight against his will. He fired the first time in the air. My pistol missed; then I seemed to lose my senses, and ran toward him shooting as I went. He fired once to save himself—"
The woman's loosened hair, black as the darkness into which he was drifting, hung about him; she put her hand in his and carried it to his lips. He pressed a faint kiss upon her pale fingers, and then pushed the hand away; it was his last action. Consciousness then left him, never to return; and twenty minutes later the crystal mirror held before his lips remained unclouded, the mass of wild dark hair heaped upon his bosom was unstirred by the faintest breath. All was over. Since that mute gesture of avoidance, that putting aside of her clinging hands, the woman had not moved; not more still than she was the dead form beside her. She had watched him with untrembling eyelids, all intelligence had left her face; it was as if her longing soul was clinging to the out-going spirit, even as her hands clung to his helpless hands, which in the last hour had pushed hers aside.
She might have striven to follow him on the first stage of that dark journey—in vain; for the color came back to her marble cheek, the expression to her dark eyes. She leaned over him as if to kiss his forehead for the last time; but the jealous mastiff caught at her hand and bit the small fingers till the blood started. She did not seem to heed the pain, but the action was not lost upon her. With a faint moan she sank upon the floor, and lay there weeping and dishevelled, while the mastiff took up the note of grief with his low howl of pain.
Philip Rondelet, gentlest among men, took pity on this broken creature, whom the other men heeded as little as they did the dog, and got her finally into the lower room. She was passive in his hands, but sank again grovelling to the earth, her glorious hair falling about her, her rich dress and jewels lighting up the dark hovel. Soon the young surgeon and Jean followed them. The latter spoke to her less roughly than before, but with a scornful pity scarcely less hard to bear. At the sound of his voice the woman arose, silent and patient.
"Therese, you must go back to the city with the doctors. There is nothing more for either them or you to do. Launce and I will stay with him till they come to take him away. Remember, you are to know nothing of this till you hear the news from outside. It will be bad for you if you let fall anything that you have seen."
She nodded silently.
"For his sake," he went on, "it must never be known how and in what a cause he died. His reputation is all that is left me to care for. Remember."
"And the man who did this thing, is he to go unharmed?"
"He is wounded."
"Ah!" with a savage gleam of triumph; "but not seriously?"
"No, not seriously."
"But I swear—"
"Silence! The fault was yours, yours, yours. Do you hear? This man's blood is on your head, and his murderer's guilt upon your soul. Now go, and never let me see your accursed face again!"
With a gesture of supreme contempt he turned and left her. To Rondelet the young man said, "Good-by! I thank you for what you have done. He was my brother, my only friend—"
Rondelet wrung his outstretched hand. "Your name. Tell me that before I go?"
"No, it is better