Ye purblind, ye pessimists, existing with no hope of a resurrection, bethink you of these matters; go, open the great and awful Book, and read and behold these things for yourselves —­for what student of history is there but must be persuaded of man’s immortality—­that, though this poor flesh be mangled, torn asunder, burned to ashes, yet the soul, rising beyond the tyrant’s reach, soars triumphant above death and this sorry world, to the refuge of “the everlasting arms;” for God is a just God!

Now, in a while, becoming conscious that my pipe was smoked out and cold, I reached up my hand to my tobacco-box upon the mantelshelf.  Yet I did not reach it down, for, even as my fingers closed upon it, above the wailing of the storm, above the hiss and patter of driven rain, there rose a long-drawn cry: 

“Charmian!”

So, remembering the voice I had seemed to hear calling in my dream, I sat there with my hand stretched up to my tobacco-box, and my face screwed round to the casement behind me, that, as I watched, shook and rattled beneath each wind-gust, as if some hand strove to pluck it open.

How long I remained thus, with my hand stretched up to my tobacco-box, and my eyes upon this window, I am unable to say, but, all at once, the door of the cottage burst open with a crash, and immediately the quiet room was full of rioting wind and tempest; such a wind as stopped my breath, and sent up a swirl of smoke and sparks from the fire.  And, borne upon this wind, like some spirit of the storm, was a woman with flying draperies and long, streaming hair, who turned, and, with knee and shoulder, forced to the door, and so leaned there, panting.

Tall she was, and nobly shaped, for her wet gown clung, disclosing the sinuous lines of her waist and the bold, full curves of hip and thigh.  Her dress, too, had been wrenched and torn at the neck, and, through the shadow of her fallen hair, I caught the ivory gleam of her shoulder, and the heave and tumult of her bosom.

Here I reached down my tobacco-box and mechanically began to fill my pipe, watching her the while.

Suddenly she started, and seemed to listen.  Then, with a swift, stealthy movement, she slipped from before the door, and I noticed that she hid one hand behind her.

“Charmian!”

The woman crouched back against the wall, with her eyes towards the door, and always her right hand was hidden in the folds of her petticoat.  So we remained, she watching the door, and I, her.

“Charmian!”

The voice was very near now, and, almost immediately after, there came a loud “view hallo,” and a heavy fist pounded upon the door.

“Oh, Charmian, you’re there—­yes, yes—­inside—­I know you are.  I swore you should never escape me, and you sha’n’t—­by God!” A hand fumbled upon the latch, the door swung open, and a man entered.  As he did so I leapt forward, and caught the woman’s wrist.  There was a blinding flash, a loud report, and a bullet buried itself somewhere in the rafters overhead.  With a strange, repressed cry, she turned upon me so fiercely that I fell back before her.