“I waited here, good mother, to learn more of the poor wounded man.  Sister Felecitie tells me that he is a suicide.  I hope that is a mistake,” said Salome.

“It is too true, helas!  But, my daughter,” said the abbess, turning to the young nun, “leave us alone for a few minutes.”

The little sister retired obediently, but very unwillingly, for she was tormented with unsatisfied curiosity concerning the unfortunate stranger, who had committed suicide at their convent gate.

“Salome! do you know, can you conjecture, who the unhappy man is?” solemnly inquired the abbess, as soon as she was left alone with her young friend.

“I do not know.  I—­fear to conjecture,” whispered the young wife; growing pale.

“Yet your very fear proves that you have conjectured, and conjectured correctly.  Yes! the wretched suicide is no other than John Scott, the ‘double’ of the Duke of Hereward.”

“Heaven of heavens!  What drove him to the fatal deed?  But why should I ask?  Of course, it was remorse! remorse that was slowly killing him! too slowly for his suffering and his impatience!” exclaimed the young lady, with a shudder.

“Yes, it was remorse, and—­desperation.”

“Desperation!”

“Yes!  The English detectives had traced him down to this neighborhood; they followed him down here with a warrant for his arrest, countersigned by our chief of police.  They surprised him near the south gate of the convent; but he was too quick for them; and before they could prevent him, driven to desperation, he caught a pistol from his pocket and shot himself through the body, inflicting a mortal wound.  They brought him into the convent.  I have had him placed in a comfortable room in the Old Men’s Home, where he is attended by Doctor Dubourg, of L’Ange, who Providentially happened to be passing the convent at the time of the occurrence.”

Salome covered her face with her hands, and sank back in her chair, with a groan.

A few moments elapsed, and then Salome, still vailing her face, murmured a question: 

“How long may the dying man last?  Surely—­surely—­” Her voice faltered, and broke down with a sob.

“He can not last more than a very few days.  He may not last more than a few hours,” said the abbess, in a low tone.

“Surely—­surely, then,” resumed Salome, in a broken voice, “he will make a confession before he dies.  He will vindicate his brother, and so save his own soul.”

“I think that he will do so, Sister Salome.  Calm yourself.  He has caused a telegram to be sent to the Duke of Hereward, calling him here.”

Salome started and trembled violently.  She could scarcely gasp forth the words of her broken exclamation: 

“The Duke of Hereward!  Called!  Here!”

“Yes, my daughter.  So you perceive that your proposed journey to England is forestalled.”