From afar the sound of rushing waters seemed to smite Beryl’s ears, to surge nearer, to overflow her brain.  She sank suddenly to the floor, clinging with one hand to the window bar, and her auburn head fell forward on the up-lifted arm.  Thinking that she had fainted, Mr. Dunbar stooped and raised her face, holding it in his palms.  The eyes met his, unflinching but mournful as those of a tormented deer whom the hunters drag from worrying hounds.  She writhed, freed herself from his touch; and resting against the window sill, drew a long deep breath.

“You have succeeded in your mission today.  You have the only clue you needed.  You have no occasion to linger.  Now—­will you leave me?”

He picked up the handkerchief.

“This is your handkerchief?”

She made no answer.  A leaden hand was pressing upon her heart, her brain, her aching eyes.

“You have basely deceived me.  You did go back that night, and you left this, to betray you.  Saturated with chloroform you laid it over your grandfather’s face.  Load your soul with no more falsehoods.  Confess the deeds of that awful night.”

“I did not go back.  I never saw ‘Elm Bluff’ after I met you.  I know no more of the chloroform than you do.  I have told the truth first and last, and always.  I have no confession to make.  I am as innocent as you are.  Innocent!  Innocent!  You are going to hang me for a crime I did not commit.  When you do, you will murder an innocent woman.”

She spoke slowly, solemnly, and at intervals, as if she found it difficult to express her meaning.  The passionless tone was that of one, standing where the river of death flowed close to her feet, and her beautiful face shone with the transfiguring light of conscious purity.

“Hold up your hand, and tell me this is not your handkerchief; and I will yet save you.”

“It was my handkerchief, but I am innocent.  Finish your work.”

“How can you expect me to believe your contradictory statements?”

Wearily she turned her head, and looked at him.  A strange drowsiness dimmed her vision, thickened her speech.

“I expect nothing from you—­but—­death.”

“Will you explain how your handkerchief chanced to be found on your grandfather’s pillow?  Trust me, I am trying to believe you.  Tell me.”

In his eagerness he seized her hand, clasped it tightly, bent over her.  She made no reply, and the silky black lashes sank lower, lower till they touched the violet circle suffering had worn under her eyes.  Like a lily too heavy for its stem, the glossy head fell upon her breast.  Her hot fingers throbbed in his palm, and when he felt her pulse, the rapid bounding tide defied his counting.  Kneeling beside her, he laid the head against his shoulder.

“Are you ill?  What is the matter?  Speak to me.”

Her parched lips unclosed, and she muttered with a sigh, like a child falling asleep after long sobbing: