Walden was silent.

“I may as well tell you,”—­went on Forsyth—­“that she—­Miss Vancourt herself,—­is ready to risk it.  Santori has gone back to London to-night,—­but if we agree to place her under his hands he will come and perform the operation next week.”

“Next week!” murmured Walden, faintly—­“Must it be so soon?”

“The sooner the better,”—­said Forsyth, quietly, yet firmly, “Come, John, face this thing out!  I am thinking of the chance of her happiness as well as yours.  Is it worth while to sacrifice the whole of a young life’s possible activity for the sake of one year’s certainty of helplessness with death at the end?  Wrestle the facts out with yourself;—­go and see her to-night.  And after you have talked it over together, let me know.”

He went out then, and left Walden alone to face this new dark cloud of anxiety and suspense that seemed to loom over a sky which he imagined had just cleared.  But when he saw Maryllia that evening, her face reflected nothing but sunshine, and her eyes were radiant with hope.

“I must take this chance, John!” she said—­“Do not withhold your consent!  Think what it means to us both if this great surgeon is able to set me on my feet again!—­and he is so kind and gentle!—­he says he has every hope of success!  What happiness it will be for me if I can be all in all to you, John!—­a real true wife, instead of a poor helpless invalid dependent on your daily care!—­oh John, let me show you how much I love you by facing this ordeal, and trying to save my life for your sake!”

He drew her into his arms, and folded her close to his heart.

“My child—­my darling!  If you wish it, it shall be done!” he murmured brokenly—­“And may God in His great mercy be good to us both!  But if you die, my Maryllia, I shall die too—­so we shall still be together!”

So it was settled; and Dr. Forsyth, vacillating uneasily between hope and fear, communicated the decision at once to the famous Italian surgeon, who, without any delay or hesitation responded by promptly fixing a day in the ensuing week for his performance of the critical task which was either to kill or cure a woman who to one man was the dearest of all earth’s creatures.  And with such dreadful rapidity did the hours fly towards that day that Walden experienced in himself all the trembling horrors of a condemned criminal who knows that his execution is fixed for a certain moment to which Time itself seems racing like a relentless bloodhound, sure of its quarry.  Writing to Bishop Brent he told him all, and thus concluded his letter:—­

“If I lose her now—­now, after the joy of knowing that she loves me--I shall kneel before you broken-hearted and implore your forgiveness for ever having called you selfish in the extremity of your grief and despair for the loss of love.  For I am myself utterly selfish to the heart’s core, and though I say every night in my prayers ‘Thy Will be done,’ I know that if she is taken from me I shall rebel against that Will!  For I am only human,—­and make no pretence to be more than a man who loves greatly.”