She pushed me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left the room.

I have broken my resolution not to write about myself—­but there is no egotism, there is a sincere sense of humiliation in me, when I record this confession of misconduct.  I can make but one atonement—­I must at once leave St. Germain.  Now, when it is too late, I feel how hard for me this life of constant repression has been.

Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note, addressed in pencil.  No answer was required.

The few lines were in Stella’s handwriting:  “You must not leave us too suddenly, or you may excite my mother’s suspicions.  Wait until you receive letters from England, and make them the pretext for your departure.—­S.”

I never thought of her mother.  She is right.  Even if she were wrong, I must obey her.

September 14.—­The letters from England have arrived.  One of them presents me with the necessary excuse for my departure, ready made.  My proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted.  The sailing-master and crew have refused all offers of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes for my orders.  Here is an absolute necessity for my return to England.

The newspaper arrived with the letters.  My anticipations have been realized.  Yesterday’s paragraph has produced another volunteer contributor.  An Englishman just returned from Central America, after traveling in Arizona, writes to the Times. He publishes his name and address—­and he declares that he has himself seen the two captive priests.

The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it.  He is no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite—­the well-known traveler in India, who discovered the lost diamond called “the Moonstone,” set in the forehead of a Hindoo idol.  He writes to the editor as follows: 

“Sir—­I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were the sole survivors of the massacre in the Santa Cruz Valley four months since.

“I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of an Apache chief, bribed to show me his country and his nation (instead of cutting my throat and tearing off my scalp) by a present tribute of whisky and gunpowder, and by the promise of more when our association came to an end.

“About twelve miles northward of the little silver-mining town of Tubac we came upon an Apache encampment.  I at once discovered two white men among the Indians These were the captive priests.

“One of them was a Frenchman, named L’Herbier.  The other was an Englishman, named Penrose.  They owed their lives to the influence of two powerful considerations among the Indians.  Unhappy L’Herbier lost his senses under the horror of the night massacre.  Insanity, as you may have heard, is a sacred thing in the estimation of the American savages; they regard this poor madman as a mysteriously inspired person The other priest, Penrose, had been in charge of the