“’But you have made a mistake.  Your friend is alive.  It is absurd to think that Mr. Blake is guilty of such a deed.’

“He pointed with a trembling hand to the bloody knife.

“‘I can have no stronger proof than that,’ he said, ’and that blood cries out for vengeance now.’

“‘Oh, I cannot,’ she said, ‘I cannot.’

“‘You refuse me?’ he said quietly.

“‘I must, I must,’ she cried.  ‘It cannot be!’

“He went to the writing-desk that stood near by, and commenced writing.  ‘If a poor Eastern cannot have love, he can still have vengeance,’ he said.

“‘What are you writing?’ she cried.

“’I am writing a letter to the superintendent of the nearest police station, telling him to come with some men to Temple Hall to arrest a murderer.’

“‘Have you no mercy?’ she said.

“’Mercy, lady.  Only the Great Spirit above knows what I had made up my mind to give up, when I told you the condition on which I would be silent.  I loved my friend as Jonathan loved David, and he is dead—­murdered by an enemy’s hand.  Vengeance is one of the sweetest thoughts to an Eastern, and I meant to be avenged.  You begged for his life, and I offered it—­for your love.  I asked you to marry me—­me, who would give up everything for you; but you refused.  I grieve for you, lady; but since I cannot have love, I must have revenge.’

“He went on writing, while Miss Forrest clasped her hands as if in prayer.

“I am relating this very badly, Justin.  I cannot remember many of the things that were said; I cannot call to mind all the gestures, the tones of voice, or the awful anguish which seemed to possess them both.  I can only give you a scrappy account of what passed.”

I remembered Tom’s powers of memory, however, for which he had always been remarkable at school, and I knew that the account he gave me was not far from correct, and I begged him to go on.

“At length she turned to him again,” continued Tom. “’I am going to show,’ she said, ’that I believe Mr. Blake innocent.  You asked me for love; that I cannot give you.  I do not love you, I never shall love you; but such is my belief in Mr. Blake’s innocence that I promise you this:  if he is not proved to be guiltless within a year, I will marry you.’

“He leapt to his feet, as if to embrace her.

“‘No,’ she said; ’you have not heard all my conditions.  Within that year you are not to see me or communicate with me.’

“‘But,’ he cried, ’if Kaffar is dead, if these terrible evidences of murder are real, then in a year—­say next Christmas Eve; ’twas on Christmas Eve we first met in England—­then you will promise to be my wife?’

“‘I promise.’

“‘And your promise shall be irrevocable?’

“She turned on him with scorn.  ’The promise of a lady is ever irrevocable,’ she said.

“‘Ah!’ cried Voltaire, ’love is a stronger passion than vengeance, and my love will win yours.’