The man gasped as he concluded the last sentence, and the duke said: 

“You had better rest now.  A little rest will do more good than any stimulant.”

“You think so?  Nay, rest would be death for me now.  I must go on while my nerves are strung up; once they relax, I die.”

“Very well; I am listening attentively.”

“As soon as Rose was discharged from custody I sought her out, and there was a mutual explanation and reconciliation.  But the testimony of John Potts, given on the trial of Rose Cameron, had placed my life in great jeopardy:  so we secretly left the country.  We went away separately for our greater security.  I went first.  Rose came on a week later.  We met by appointment at L’Ange.  In the obscurity of that village we hoped for safety; but I was tormented by remorse; for the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison lay heavily on my soul.  There, my wife, Rose, gave birth to a little girl, whom we secretly placed in the rotary basket at the door of the Infants’ Asylum attached to this convent.  The good nuns received it, and cared for it.  They called it Marie Perdue, ‘Lost Mary.’  After Rose’s recovery, we went away, because it was not safe for us to remain so near home with such sharpers as English detectives and French police on our track.  We took refuge in Italy, in the Sanctuary of the Holy See.  We stayed there several months, when, thinking that all pursuit had been abandoned, and longing to see our child, we came on a flying visit to L’Ange.  But the police were on the watch for us.  I was arrested, as you have heard, on the day after my arrival.  Quick work; but you see the chief of police here telegraphed the police in London, and brought the detectives hither within twenty-four hours.  You know the rest.  I am dying here by my own hand.  It was a mad, rash, impulsive act, for which I am deeply sorry; but—­I am dying in expiation of my share in the tragedy at Lone Castle.”

The young duke took the emaciated hand of the failing man and pressed it in silence; he was too deeply moved to trust himself to speak.

“I have but this to say now.  I leave a wife and helpless child.  They are penniless and friendless.  You will not let them starve,” murmured the man.

“Oh, no, no, I will care for them, believe me, as long as we all shall live,” said the duke, earnestly.

“That is all.  Bid me good-by now.  And when you go out ask good Sister Francoise to send the priest,” said John Scott, holding out his white, cold hand.

“I will.  Good-bye.  May our merciful Father in heaven bless and save you, my poor brother,” murmured the duke, pressing that pale hand, laying it tenderly on the coverlet, and gliding from the room of death.

Ten minutes later, the good Father Garbennetti was closeted with his penitent, administering religious consolation.

When the last sacred offices were all performed, the priest retired, and the wife and child of the dying man were admitted to his presence, with permission to remain with him to the end.