‘Yes, mother,’ I cried, ’she is in all things the very opposite of Tom.  She has such a horror of sacrilege; she has such a dread of a crime and a curse like this; she has such a superstitious belief in the power of a dead man’s curse to cling to the delinquent’s offspring, that, if she knew of what her father had done, she would go mad—­raving mad, mother—­she would indeed!’ And I fell hack on the pillow exhausted.

’Well, Henry, and is this what you summoned me from my bed to tell me—­that Wynne’s daughter will most likely object to share the consequences of her father’s crime?  A very natural objection, and I am really sorry for her; but further than that I have certainly no affair with her.’

’But, mother, the body of her father lies beneath the debris on the shore; the ebbing tide may leave it exposed, and the poor girl, missing her father in the morning, will seek him perhaps on the shore and find him—­find him with the proof of his crime on his breast, and know that she inherits the curse—­my father’s curse!  Oh, think of that, mother—­think of it.  And you only can prevent it.’

For a few moments there was intense silence in the room.  I saw that my mother was reflecting.  At last she said: 

’You say that Wynne’s daughter told you something to-night.  Where did you see her?’

‘On the sands.’

‘At what hour?’

‘At—­at—­at—­about eleven, or twelve, or one o’clock.’

I felt that I was getting into a net, but was too ill to know what I was doing.  My mother paused for awhile; I waited as the prisoner tried for his life waits when the jury have retired to consult.  I clutched the bedclothes to stay the trembling of my limbs.  On a chair by my bedside was my watch, which had been stopped by the sea-water.  I saw her take it up mechanically, look at it, and lay it down again.  In the agony of my suspense I yet observed her smallest movement.

‘And in what capacity am I to undertake this expedition?’ said she at length, in the same quiet tone, that soul-quelling tone she always adopted when her passion was at white-heat.  ’Is it in the capacity of your father’s wife executing his wishes about the amulet?  Or is it as the friend, protectress, and guardian of Miss Wynne?’

She sat down again by my bedside, and communed with herself—­sometimes fixing an abstracted gaze upon me, sometimes looking across me at the very spot where in the shadow beside my bed I bad seemed to see the words of the Psalmist’s curse written in letters of fire.  At last she said quietly, ’Henry, I will undertake this commission of yours.’

‘Dear mother!’ I exclaimed in my delight.  ‘I will undertake it,’ pursued my mother in the same quiet tone, ‘on one condition.’

’Any condition in the world, mother.  There is nothing I will not do, nothing I will not sacrifice or suffer, if you will only aid me in saving this poor girl.  Name your condition, mother; you can name nothing I will not comply with.’