Once, she had been beautiful, with such beauty as a pure complexion, black eyes, raven hair and perfect features confer; but now she was a wreck.  The pure, transparent complexion was pale as marble—­the brilliant eyes sunken—­the magnificent hair bleached white as the wintry snow.

She welcomed him brokenly, her eyes lighting up with the pleasure of seeing him—­and then the light faded away, leaving her even more ghastly than before.

“They tell me I am dying,” she said, hoarsely.  “Do you think so?”

He smoothed back the hair on the forehead—­damp already with the dews of death.  His look assured her better than the words he could not bring himself to speak.

“My poor Arabel!”

“Arabel!  Who calls me Arabel?” she asked, dreamily.  “I have not heard that name since he spoke it!  What a sweet voice he had!  O, so sweet!—­but falser than Satan!  O Louis, Louis! if we could go back to the old days among the orange groves, before I sinned—­when we were innocent little children!”

“It is all over now, Arabel.  You were tempted; but God is good to forgive, if repentance is sincere.”

“O, I have repented!  I have, indeed!  And I have prayed as well as I knew how.  But my crimes are so fearful!  You are sure that Christ is very merciful?”

“Very merciful, Arabel.”

“More merciful, more gentle and loving than our best friends, Louis?”

“He forgave those who crucified Him.”

“O, if I could only trust Him—­if I only could!”

She clasped her hands, and her pale lips moved in prayer, though there was no audible word.

“Let me hold your hand, Louis.  It gives me strength.  And you were always a friend so true and steadfast.  How happy we were in those dear old days—­you, and Inez, and I!  Ah, Inez—­Inez!  She died in her sweet innocence, loving and beloved—­died by violence; but she never lived to suffer from the falsity of those she loved!  Well, she is in paradise—­God rest her!”

The dark eyes of Castrani grew moist.  There arose before him a picture of the fair young girl he had loved—­the gentle-eyed Inez—­the confiding young thing he was to have married, had not the hand of a cruel jealousy cut short her brief existence.  Arabel saw his emotion, and pressed his hand in hers, so cold and icy.

“You have suffered also, Louis, but not as I have suffered—­O, no!  O, the days before he came—­he, the destroyer!  What a handsome face he had, and how he flattered me!  Flattered my foolish pride, until, deserting home and friends, I fled with him across the seas!  To Paris—­beautiful, frivolous, crime-imbued Paris.  I am so faint and tired, Louis!  Give me a drink, from the wineglass.”

He put it to her lips; she swallowed greedily, and resumed: 

“I have written out my history fully.  Why, I hardly know, for there are none but you, Louis, who will feel an interest in the poor outcast.  But something has impelled me to write it, and when I am dead, you will find it there in that desk, sealed and directed to yourself.  Maybe you will never open it, for if my strength does not desert me, I shall tell you all that you will care to know, with my own lips.  I want to watch your face, as I go on, and see if you condemn me.  You are sure God is more merciful than man?”