“I know little of the laws,” said I, “but if they refuse to part us, why, we must part ourselves.  If human justice is so far removed from righteousness, why, we must rise above it, and never mind the world.  ’Tis a wide place.  Take her and make her happy where none knows.  The worst of my pain is past.”

But Gabriel still insisted on the necessity of his death.  “Your dreams are wild!” he cried.  “There’s but one way.  I have robbed you of all you had, of husband and friend.  If I die, you, at least, have reparation.  I have thought it well over; I am as calm as you.  My poems lie in ashes in the grate.  My life is done.”

We talked very long, very quietly, until the dawn peeped through the cracks of the shutters.  And at last he gave me his word that he would live.

Having this promise, I rose.

“It is morning,” said I; “we are not fit to talk further.  To-morrow we must seek our way.  Go, Gabriel, and try to sleep; I will go upstairs to Jane.”

As we crossed the hall, he ran out into the garden, and I followed him.  It was very cold, and I shivered, chilled by the dawn of a hopeless day.

He stooped on the path before me, and picked up the revolver he had dropped, looking at me with a queer smile.  But the thought that he might even then be lying lifeless was brought to my mind with sickening vividness.  I reeled, and would have fallen, had he not caught me in his arms.

“I am a fool,” said I; “I saw you dead among the leaves.”

He took my hands and kissed them, murmuring: 

“Emilia—­dear Emilia!” And then I made my way up the creaking stairs, and roused poor Jane, who lay asleep with her head under the bed-clothes.  I told her there had been some trouble she should know of to-morrow, and, being half asleep, she did not question me, but made room for me in her bed.

I must have fallen asleep towards rising-time, for I did not hear her get up; but when she was nearly dressed I awoke and got up also, begging her to excuse my explanations yet a little, as I was very tired.

Gabriel got down at the same time as I did.  Richard Norton was always a lie-abed, so poor Jane was alone to puzzle out the secret of our haggard faces.  It was not early; it must have been nearly ten o’clock when Aunt Caroline arrived.  The poor thing burst into tears when she saw me.

“Thank Mercy!” she cried; “oh, what a fright we’ve had!  Why must you go out so early in the morning, before the house is up, and no message, too.”

I made some little joke to laugh it off; Gabriel laughed also; we offered her some breakfast, and it was then that she said: 

“I must go back at once; I promised Mrs. Rayner to bring back Constance immediately.”

Gabriel and I were standing side by side; we looked at each other, and he must have read the same sudden fear in my eye that I read in his.

“Come,” said I.