“I will thank you, Mr. Dunbar, as long as I live, for this last and greatest kindness.  If I could tell you what this precious relic represents to me, oh, if you knew! you would pity me indeed.”

“Tell me.  Trust me.  God knows I would never betray your confidence, no matter what it cost me.”

It was a powerful temptation to divulge the truth, and her heart whispered that Bertie’s safety would be secured by removing all jealous incentive to his pursuit; but she remembered the fair, sweet, heroic woman who had dared her fiance’s wrath in order to unbar those prison doors; who had faithfully and delicately thrown over the convict the mantle of her friendship; and the loyal soul of the prisoner strangled its weakness.

Perishing in the desert where scorching sands stifled her, she had surrendered to death, when love sprang to her side, lifted her into the heavenly peace of dewy palms, and held to parched lips the sparkling draught a glimpse of which electrified her.  Would starvation entitle her to drink?  Over the head of pleading love stretched the arm of stony-eyed duty, striking into the dust the crystal drops, withering the palms; and following her stern beckon, the thirsty pilgrim re-trod the sands of surrender, more intolerable than before, because the oasis was still in sight.  Duty!  Rugged incorruptible Spartan dame, whose inflexible mandate is ever:  “With your shield, or on it.”

Beryl put up her hand, drew his from her head to her lips, kissed it softly.

“Good-bye, Mr. Dunbar.  I promise you one thing.  If I find I cannot live, I will send for you.  Upon the border of the grave I will open my heart.  You shall see all; and then you will understand, and deliver a message which I must leave in your hands.  Give my grateful remembrance to Miss Gordon.  Make her happy; and ask her to pray for me, that I may be patient.  Now leave me, for I can bear no more.”

She put aside his hand, and hid her face once more.  He stooped, laid his lips on the shining hair, and walked away.  At the door he paused.  The long corridor was very dim and gloomy, and the deep-toned bell in the tower was ringing slowly.  Looking back into the cell, he saw that Beryl had risen, and against the sullen red glow on the western window, her face and figure outlined a silhouette of hopeless desolation.

CHAPTER XXIV

Each human soul is dowered with an inherent adaptability to its environment, with an innate energy which properly directed, grapples successfully with all assailing ills; and Time, the tireless reconciler, flies always low at our side, hardening the fibre of endurance, stealthily administering that supreme and infallible anaesthetic whereby the torturing throes of human woe are surely stilled.  Existence involves strife; mental and moral growth depend upon the vigor with which it is waged, and scorning cowardice, Nature