“Salome!”

She started up with a wild cry of joy!  She would have sank down at his feet, but he caught her to his bosom, held her there, stroking her hair, kissing her face, murmuring in her ear: 

“Salome, Salome, my sweet wife, Salome!  Oh, how thankful!  Oh, how glad I am to meet you!”

She could not answer him.  She could not speak.  She was overwhelmed by his goodness.  She could only burst into tears and weep like a storm upon his bosom.

He sat down on the sofa, and drew her to his side, keeping his arm around her and resting her head upon his bosom, while still he smoothed her hair with his hands, and kissed her from time to time, until she ceased to weep.

“I can never forgive myself,” she murmured at length—­“never forgive myself for the deep wrong I have done your noble nature; nor do I ask you to forgive me; because—­because your every tone and look and gesture expresses the full forgiveness, you are too delicate and generous to speak!”

“No, sweet wife, do not ask me to forgive you; for you have done no willful wrong that needs forgiveness.  And I have no forgiveness for you, sweet, but only love! infinite, eternal love!  Our past is dead and buried.  Let it be forgotten.  You will leave this house with me this evening, love.  And as soon as our duties will release us from this neighborhood we will return to England, where a host of friends will welcome us home.  And here is something that will surprise and please you, love.  Your flight is not known to the world.  We are believed to be living in Italy together, where I have been traveling alone in secret search for you these many months.  We shall return to society as from a lengthened wedding tour.  Come, love, will you go away with me this very evening?”

“I will go anywhere, do anything you wish—­for, under God, henceforth I have no will but yours, oh, my lord and love!” murmured the young wife, sweetly, and solemnly, as she turned her face to his, and he sealed her promise with an earnest kiss.

The same evening the Duke of Hereward took his recovered bride to the pretty, rustic inn at L’Ange, and installed her in a pleasant suite of apartments.  They remained at L’Ange until after the funeral of poor John Scott, whose body was interred in the little cemetery by St. Marie L’Ange.

The young Duke of Hereward defrayed all the expenses of the burial, and settled upon the widow an income sufficient to enable her to live in comfort and respectability.  With the full consent of the unloving mother, who was but too willing to be relieved of her incumbrance, the young Duchess of Hereward adopted little Marie Perdue; “perdue” no longer, but the cherished pet of a fond foster-mother.

Before leaving France, the Duke and Duchess of Hereward richly endowed the charities of the Convent of St. Rosalie, which had been so long the refuge of the lost bride.  The duchess took an affectionate leave of the gentle abbess and her simple nuns, who had for so many months been her only companions.  She promised to make them an annual visit.