“Pray for rescue, as I have,” exclaimed Miriam.  “Pray for deliverance from me, since I am your evil genius, as you mine.  Dark as your life has been, I have known you to pray in times past!”

At these words of Miriam, a tremor and horror appeared to seize upon her persecutor, insomuch that he shook and grew ashy pale before her eyes.  In this man’s memory there was something that made it awful for him to think of prayer; nor would any torture be more intolerable than to be reminded of such divine comfort and succor as await pious souls merely for the asking; This torment was perhaps the token of a native temperament deeply susceptible of religious impressions, but which had been wronged, violated, and debased, until, at length, it was capable only of terror from the sources that were intended for our purest and loftiest consolation.  He looked so fearfully at her, and with such intense pain struggling in his eyes, that Miriam felt pity.

And now, all at once, it struck her that he might be mad.  It was an idea that had never before seriously occurred to her mind, although, as soon as suggested, it fitted marvellously into many circumstances that lay within her knowledge.  But, alas! such was her evil fortune, that, whether mad or no, his power over her remained the same, and was likely to be used only the more tyrannously, if exercised by a lunatic.

“I would not give you pain,” she said, soothingly; “your faith allows you the consolations of penance and absolution.  Try what help there may be in these, and leave me to myself.”

“Do not think it, Miriam,” said he; “we are bound together, and can never part again.”  “Why should it seem so impossible?” she rejoined.  “Think how I had escaped from all the past!  I had made for myself a new sphere, and found new friends, new occupations, new hopes and enjoyments.  My heart, methinks, was almost as unburdened as if there had been no miserable life behind me.  The human spirit does not perish of a single wound, nor exhaust itself in a single trial of life.  Let us but keep asunder, and all may go well for both.”  “We fancied ourselves forever sundered,” he replied.  “Yet we met once, in the bowels of the earth; and, were we to part now, our fates would fling us together again in a desert, on a mountain-top, or in whatever spot seemed safest.  You speak in vain, therefore.”

“You mistake your own will for an iron necessity,” said Miriam; “otherwise, you might have suffered me to glide past you like a ghost, when we met among those ghosts of ancient days.  Even now you might bid me pass as freely.”

“Never!” said he, with unmitigable will; “your reappearance has destroyed the work of years.  You know the power that I have over you.  Obey my bidding; or, within a short time, it shall be exercised:  nor will I cease to haunt you till the moment comes.”

“Then,” said Miriam more calmly, “I foresee the end, and have already warned you of it.  It will be death!”