“Oh, be not ashamed, Guy Rivers.  Give over that false sentiment of pride which is now a weakness.  Be the man, the—­”

“Be content, Ellen, with my terms.  Either as I please, or not at all.  Go to the window.”

She did as he directed, and a few moments had elapsed only when he called her to him.  He had resumed his seat upon the bench, and his features were singularly composed and quiet.

“I have done something more than you required, Ellen, for which you will also have to forgive me.  Give me your hand, now.”

She did so, and he placed it upon his bosom, which was now streaming with his blood!  He had taken the momentary opportunity afforded him by her absence at the window to stab himself to the heart with a penknife which he had contrived to conceal upon his person.  Horror-struck, the affrighted woman would have called out for assistance, but, seizing her by the wrist, he sternly stayed her speech and action.

“Not for your life, Ellen—­not for your life!  It is all useless.  I first carefully felt for the beatings of my heart, and then struck where they were strongest.  The stream flows now which will soon cease to flow, and but one thing can stop it.”

“Oh, what is that, Guy?—­let me—­”

“Death—­which is at hand!  Now, Ellen, do you forgive me?  I ask no forgiveness from others.”

“From my heart I do, believe me.”

“It is well.  I am weak.  Let me place my head upon your bosom.  It is some time, Ellen, since it has been there.  How wildly does it struggle!  Pray, Ellen, that it beat not long.  It has a sad office!  Now—­lips—­give me your lips, Ellen.  You have forgiven me—­all—­everything?”

“All, all!”

“It grows dark—­but I care not.  Yet, throw open the window—­I will not rest—­I will pursue!  He shall not escape me!—­Edith—­Edith!” He was silent, and sunk away from her embrace upon the floor.  In the last moment his mind had wandered to the scene in which, but an hour before, he had witnessed the departure of Edith with his rival, Colleton.

The jailer, alarmed by the first fearful cry of Ellen succeeding this event, rushed with his assistants into the cell, but too late.  The spirit had departed; and they found but the now silent mourner, with folded arms, and a countenance that had in it volumes of unutterable wo, bending over the inanimate form of one whose life and misnamed love had been the bane of hers.

THE END.