“Can you look me in the eye—­so—­and say that you never put this key in yonder lock?  Edna! more hangs on your words than you dream of.  Be truthful! as if you were indeed in the presence of the God you worship.  I can forgive you for prying into my affairs, but I can not and will not pardon you for trifling with me now.”

“I never unlocked the vault; I never had the key near it but once—­ about a week ago—­when I found the tomb covered with cobwebs, and twisted the key partly into the hole to drive out the spider.  I give you my most solemn assurance that I never unlocked it, never saw the interior.  Your suspicions are ungenerous and unjust—­derogatory to you and insulting to me.”

“The proof is at hand, and if I have indeed unjustly suspected you, atonement full and ample shall be made.”

Clasping one of her hands so firmly that she could not extricate it, he drew her before the Taj Mahal, and stooping, fitted the key to the lock.  There was a dull click as he turned it, but even then he paused and scrutinized her face.  It was flushed, and wore a proud, defiant, grieved look; his own was colorless as the marble that reflected it, and she felt the heavy, rapid beating of his blood, and saw the cords thickening on his brow.

“If you have faithfully kept your promise, there will be an explosion when I open the vault.”

Slowly he turned the key a second time; and as the arched door opened and swung back on its golden hinges, there was a flash and sharp report from a pistol within.

Edna started involuntarily notwithstanding the warning, and clung to his arm an instant, but he took no notice of her whatever.  His fingers relaxed their iron grasp of hers, his hand dropped to his side, and leaning forward, he bowed his head on the marble dome of the little temple.  How long he stood there she knew not; but the few moments seemed to her interminable as she silently watched his motionless figure.

He was so still, that finally she conjectured he might possibly have fainted from some cause unknown to her; and averse though she was to addressing him, she said timidly: 

“Mr. Murray, are you ill?  Give me the key of the door and I will bring you some wine.”

There was no answer, and in alarm she put her hand on his.

Tightly he clasped it, and drawing her suddenly close to his side, said without raising his face: 

“Edna Earl, I have been ill—­for years—­but I shall be better henceforth.  O child! child! your calm, pure, guileless soul can not comprehend the blackness and dreariness of mine.  Better that you should lie down now in death, with all the unfolded freshness of your life gathered in your grave, than live to know the world as I have proved it.  For many years I have lived without hope or trust or faith in anything—­in anybody.  To-night I stand here lacking sympathy with or respect for my race, and my confidence in human nature was dead; but, child, you have galvanized the corpse.”