“And can nothing be done to convict them?”

“They have sworn falsely, and perverted facts.  I have no proof of their guilt.  Would the world believe my statements?  Would it not appear like the wolf accusing the lamb?  For my poor uncle’s sake I am ready to suffer; and for this cause I employed no counsel to plead on my behalf; I would rather die myself than be the means of bringing to the scaffold the only son that he adored.  Poor Algernon!  I have paid a heavy debt for his generosity to me.  Yes,” he continued, more cheerfully, “I will leave Godfrey to enjoy his ill-gotten wealth, nor waste the few hours which now remain to me on earth in vain regrets.  How is it with the dear Clary?  How has she borne up against this dreadful blow?”

Frederic’s sole answer was a mournful glance at the sables in which he was clad.  Anthony comprehended in a moment the meaning of that sad, sad look.  “She is gone,” he said—­“she, the beautiful—­the innocent.  Yes, yes—­I knew it would kill her, the idea of my guilt.  Alas! poor Clary!”

“She never thought you guilty,” said Frederic, wiping his eyes.  “She bade me give you this letter, written with her dying hand, to convince you that she believed you innocent.  Her faith towards you was as strong as death; her love for you snapped asunder the fragile threads that held her to life.  But she is happy.  Dear child!  She is better off than those who weep her loss.  And you, Anthony, you—­the idol of her fond young heart—­will receive her welcome to that glorious country, of which, I trust, she is now the bright inhabitant.”

“And she died of grief.  Died—­because others suspected of crime the man she loved.  Oh, Clary!  Clary! how unworthy was I of your love!  You knew I loved another, yet it did not diminish aught of your friendship, your pure devotion to me!  Oh, that I had your faith—­your love!”

He covered his face with his hands, and both were silent for a long time.

“Frederic, we must part,” said Anthony, at length raising his head.  “Beloved friend, we must part for ever!”

“I shall see you again to-morrow.”

“What! on the scaffold?”

“Aye, on the scaffold!  Your place of martyrdom.”

“This is friendship indeed.  Time may one day prove to you that Anthony Hurdlestone was not unworthy of your love.”

Frederic burst into tears afresh, and wringing Anthony’s hand, hurried from the cell; and the prisoner was once more left alone to commune with his own thoughts, and prepare for the awful change that awaited him.

His spirit, weaned as it was from the things of earth, contemplated with melancholy pleasure the death of the young Clary, which he considered had placed his sweet young friend beyond the reach of human suffering.

“She is with the Eternal Present,” he said.  “No dark mysterious future can ever more cloud her soul with its heavy shadow.  To-morrow—­and the veil will be rent in twain, and our ransomed spirits will behold each other face to face.  What is Death?  The eclipse for a moment of the sun of human life.  The shadow of earth passes from before it, and it again shines forth with renewed splendor.”