“Darling! come and see him.  He is here.”  She spoke more clearly, though no louder.

Richard had released her, and she took his hand, and he suffered himself to be led to the other side of the bed.  His heart began rapidly throbbing at the sight of a little rosy-curtained cot covered with lace like milky summer cloud.

It seemed to him he would lose his manhood if he looked on that child’s face.

“Stop!” he cried suddenly.

Lucy turned first to him, and then to her infant, fearing it should have been disturbed.

“Lucy, come back.”

“What is it, darling?” said she, in alarm at his voice and the grip he had unwittingly given her hand.

O God! what an Ordeal was this! that to-morrow he must face death, perhaps die and be torn from his darling—­his wife and his child; and that ere he went forth, ere he could dare to see his child and lean his head reproachfully on his young wife’s breast—­for the last time, it might be—­he must stab her to the heart, shatter the image she held of him.

“Lucy!” She saw him wrenched with agony, and her own face took the whiteness of his—­she bending forward to him, all her faculties strung to hearing.

He held her two hands that she might look on him and not spare the horrible wound he was going to lay open to her eyes.

“Lucy.  Do you know why I came to you to-night?”

She moved her lips repeating his words.

“Lucy.  Have you guessed why I did not come before?”

Her head shook widened eyes.

“Lucy.  I did not come because I was not worthy of my wife!  Do you understand?”

“Darling,” she faltered plaintively, and hung crouching under him, “what have I done to make you angry with me?”

“O beloved!” cried he, the tears bursting out of his eyes.  “O beloved!” was all he could say, kissing her hands passionately.

She waited, reassured, but in terror.

“Lucy.  I stayed away from you—­I could not come to you, because...  I dared not come to you, my wife, my beloved!  I could not come because I was a coward:  because—­hear me—­this was the reason:  I have broken my marriage oath.”

Again her lips moved.  She caught at a dim fleshless meaning in them.  “But you love me?  Richard!  My husband! you love me?”

“Yes.  I have never loved, I never shall love, woman but you.”

“Darling!  Kiss me.”

“Have you understood what I have told you?”

“Kiss me,” she said.

He did not join lips.  “I have come to you to-night to ask your forgiveness.”

Her answer was:  “Kiss me.”

“Can you forgive a man so base?”

“But you love me, Richard?”

“Yes:  that I can say before God.  I love you, and I have betrayed you, and am unworthy of you—­not worthy to touch your hand, to kneel at your feet, to breathe the same air with you.”

Her eyes shone brilliantly.  “You love me! you love me, darling!” And as one who has sailed through dark fears into daylight, she said:  “My husband! my darling! you will never leave me?  We never shall be parted again?”