"I do feel tremendously hungry," admitted the patient; "and your father?"

"Hush!" Alice's face grew sad. "You must not talk. Shortly you shall know all that has taken place. Drink the soup and then try to sleep."

Montrose wilfully argued and objected, but the girl was firm. Finally he finished the bowl of broth and closed his eyes again. When he was quite asleep Alice left the housekeeper to watch beside him through the night and retired to her own room for a much-needed rest. Anxious as she was about many matters both with regard to her lover and her father, weariness, mental and physical, demanded its due and she slept soundly until ten o'clock the next morning. Her first waking thought was for her father, and after she had learned his present condition she sought the sick-room of her lover. But Montrose was no longer sick. He was up and dressed, with a healthy colour in his cheeks and very bright eyes, ready for his breakfast and anxious to learn what had taken place during his insensible condition. Even the thought that he might be arrested on that very day did not daunt him. Knowing his innocence, and aware that he had conquered selfish fear to the extent of saving the life of the sole witness who could condemn him, he felt convinced that in some way--he did not know how--things would be made smooth. Therefore he went down to the dining-room with Alice and, after making a good meal, he accompanied her to her very own sitting-room to hear explanations.

"Your father is in danger of death, you say?" he asked, when they were seated.

"Yes, Douglas. The fall hurt his spine and the doctor does not think that he will recover. However, he is sensible enough and can talk."

"What does he say?" asked Montrose nervously.

"Scarcely a word. And that is why I am so anxious to hear from you all that took place after you left the cave. Both the coastguards told me much; but you can tell me more. In the first place, where did you meet my father?"

"In the first place," said Montrose, asking a counter-question, "am I to be arrested for murdering Narvaez?"

"No! While you have been asleep wonderful discoveries have been made and your character has been entirely cleared. It was Job Trevel who broke Don Pablo's neck."

"Job? But his mother said that he went out fishing some hours before the death!" said the young man, startled and puzzled by the revelation.

"So his mother truly thought. Job did go down to take his boat out, but jealousy of Rose brought him back to Polwellin. He suspected that she intended to see Don Pablo, and when he found she had gone out he followed her to the cottage on chance. Rose was there after you left and Don Pablo came out with her to the gate. Then Job, crazy with anger, sprang on him and--you know the rest."

"I don't know how Job escaped, or why Rose held her tongue when I was in danger of arrest for what I did not do!"

"Rose ran home terribly afraid lest she should be accused of having had something to do with the murder, and took to her bed intending to be silent out of selfish fear. Job returned to his boat and went away. He has not yet returned, and I don't think he ever will."

"But how was this found out?"

"The doctor who attended Rose became suspicious of something she said when half delirious. He told the Perchton Inspector, who saw Rose and forced her to reveal the truth. Now the police are hunting for Job, and you are entirely exonerated, although you will no doubt be called upon to state the hour when you left Don Pablo."

"Thank G.o.d for his mercies," said Montrose devoutly. "It is a most amazing thing, Alice. And to think that last night I nearly decided to let your father die, since he alone would witness against me."

"I expect that was the test that Dr. Eberstein spoke of, Douglas. I don't know how my father came to be on the spot unless he followed me by stealth when I came to see you at the cave."

Montrose nodded. "No doubt your father suspected you and followed as you say, dear. The moment I reached the top of the cliff, he rushed at me, but making a mistake about the distance in the gloom, he hurled himself over the precipice. I saw that his body was lying half way down, and it was in my mind to leave him there. Oh! what a struggle I had," cried the young man pa.s.sionately, "only Christ's love could have nerved me to save the man."

"Yes! Yes!" Alice fondled his hand. "The descent was very dangerous."

"It is not that I was thinking about. That was nothing. But my doubts, my hesitation: my desire to save my own life at the cost of his. I wonder my hair has not turned grey. And to think that all the time things were coming to a point which would proclaim my innocence. Had I let your father die I should have committed a purposeless crime. But thanks be to Christ the All-Loving and All-Powerful, I did as I would be done by, and gave my enemy his life. What a moment of anguish it was: what a bitter, bitter moment," and the young man wiped the perspiration from his brow.

Alice drew his head down on her breast and murmured over him as a mother murmurs over a child. And Montrose really was a child at the moment as what he had pa.s.sed through shook him still to the core of his being.

"It's all right now, dear; it's all right now," she urged gently. "You have conquered your greatest enemy."

"Your father?"

"No, dear, yourself. And perhaps my father also. He does not seem to be so bitter against you as he was. Twice he smiled when your name was mentioned."

"Then he has recovered?"

"He will never recover," said the girl sadly. "The doctor says that his spine is injured."

"Poor man!" cried Douglas generously, "can I not see him?"

"Not at present. The doctor says he is to be kept quiet just now." Alice burst into distressful tears. "Heaven only knows that I have little reason to love my father; but it is heart-rending to see him lying there, broken down and helpless, with no future save a painful death."

This time it was her lover's turn to soothe and console. Drawing the sobbing girl closer to his heart, he said what he could. "Death is the gate of Life, we are told, dear."

Alice made no reply. The phrase did not tend to disperse her grief, which was rather that of pity than of love, although the two are so much akin that the one can scarcely be distinguished from the other. Montrose wisely said no more, thinking truly that silence was more comforting than words, and they both remained silent for some minutes. A knock at the door parted them, and Alice dried her tears to receive a card from the incoming servant. At once her sad face lighted up with pleasure and hope.

"Oh, Douglas, Dr. Eberstein has come," she exclaimed joyfully. "Bring the gentleman here at once, at once!" And when the servant had departed the girl turned to her lover with an air of relief. "The doctor will put everything right. I feel certain of that."

"So do I," replied Douglas confidently. "He may even cure your father."

Eberstein was shown in at this moment, and when the door was closed, he walked over to Montrose with a glad smile to place his two hands on the young man's shoulders. "You have conquered, my son. As a true follower of the Blessed One you have forgiven your enemy in the face of overwhelming temptation to act otherwise."

"Then Mr. Enistor truly was my enemy?" asked Montrose hurriedly.

"Life after life he has been your enemy. Remember the vision which you saw in London, and the wounded man who came between you and the girl you love."

"Enistor!"

Eberstein bowed his head. "He was then a priest of the Star-Angel, Mars, in Chaldea. Alice was a vestal and you a n.o.ble who loved her. I warned you then not to pluck the fruit before it was ripe, but you would, and in carrying away the girl you murdered Enistor. This is the sin which has parted you and Alice for many ages. Now the debt is paid; for the life you destroyed you have given a life in saving your enemy. The shadow has vanished, and now," Eberstein placed the hand of Alice in that of Montrose, "now you are one once more. In union lies strength, therefore let the sorrows you have pa.s.sed through bind you truly together for service to G.o.d."

"How wonderful! How wonderful!" gasped Alice, holding tightly to her lover as if she feared to lose him again. "Will there be no more trouble?"

"The troubles which all undergo when dwelling in the flesh. But these, in many cases, you will be able to avert, since you have much light and more will be given. But the dark Karma of Chaldea has been dispersed for ever. Thank G.o.d, my children, that you have been so wonderfully guided through the mists of error into the clear day of truth."

"We do thank Him," said Douglas reverently, "and you for so guiding us."

"I am but the instrument used for G.o.d's high purpose," said Eberstein, with a solemn look, "and I thank Him that I have been so honoured. Now you both must do as you have been done by, and aid in the salvation of Korah Enistor."

"My father! How can we do that?" inquired Alice anxiously.

"We must wait for the arrival of that Son of Perdition who wishes to keep that most unhappy soul in bondage. Then will Love and Hate battle for the prize. The result depends upon that soul's choice."

"But Narvaez is dead," said Montrose, puzzled.

"Narvaez is more alive than ever in the body of Julian Hardwick."

"Oh!" Alice recognised the truth of this astounding statement at once.

"I knew Julian was different: that he was evil instead of good."

"You sensed Narvaez' black soul in Hardwick's body," said Eberstein simply. "Be strong, be ready; for the hour of strife is at hand."

"Let us pray!" cried Alice fervently, and the two did pray with full hearts, while the Master strengthened the selfless pet.i.tion.