Cold and white as marble she lay in my arms, so that for one terrible moment I thought her dead.  “Better so,” my heart had cried, and then I laughed aloud (God forgive me!) at the utter cruelty of it all.  But she was not dead.  As I watched the lovely ashen face, the slow blood came trickling back and throbbed faintly at her temples, the light breath flickered and went and came once more.  Feebly and with wonder the dark eyes opened to the light of day, then closed again as the lips parted in a moaning whisper.

“Claire!” I cried, and my voice seemed to come from far away, so hollow and unnatural was it, “I must take you to your home; are you well enough to go?”

I had laid her on the stone upon which the bearers were used to set down the coffins when weary.  Scarcely a week ago, poor Tom’s corpse had rested for a moment upon this grim stone.  As I bent to catch the answer, and saw how like to death her face was, I thought how well it were for both of us, should we be resting there so together; not leaving the acre of the dead, but entering it as rightful heirs of its oblivion.

After a while, as I repeated my question, the lips again parted and I heard.

I looked down the road.  The cemetery lay far out in one of the northern suburbs, and just now the neighbourhood seemed utterly deserted.  By good chance, however, I spied an old four-wheeler crawling along in the distance.  I ran after it, hailed it, brought it back, and with the help of the wondering driver, placed my love inside; then I gave the man the address, and bidding him drive with all speed, sprang in beside Claire.

Still faint, she was lying back against the cushion.  The cab crawled along at a snail’s pace, but long as the journey was, it was passed in utter silence.  She never opened her eyes, and as for me, what comfortable words could I speak?  Yet as I saw the soft rise and fall of her breast, I longed for words, Heaven knows how madly!  But none came, and in silence we drew up at length before a modest doorway in Old Kensington.

Here Claire summoned all her strength lest her mother should be frightened.  Still keeping her eyes averted, she stepped as bravely as she could from the cab, and laid her hand upon the door-handle.

I made as if to follow.

“No, no,” she said hastily, “leave me to myself—­I will write to-morrow and perhaps see you; but, oh, pray, not to-day!”

Before I could answer she had passed into the house.

Twenty-four hours had passed and left me as they found me, in torture.  Despite my doubt, I swore she should not cast me off; then knelt and prayed as I had never prayed before, that Heaven would deny some of its cruelty to my darling.  In the abandonment of my supplication, I was ready to fling the secret from me and forgive all, to forgive my father’s murderer, my life-long enemy, and let him go unsought, rather than give up Claire.  Yet as I prayed, my entreaties and my tears went up to no compassionate God, but beat themselves upon the adamantine face of Dead Man’s Rock that still rose inexorable between me and Heaven.