Brian, although in the house, held aloof from the injured man's room.

Merciful as he was by nature, Hugo's offences had transcended the bounds even of his tolerance; and his anger was more implacable than that of a harsher man. Although he had been told that Hugo was dying, he found it hard to be pitiful. He knew more than Hugo imagined. Mrs. Luttrell had recovered speech sufficiently to tell her son the history of the previous night, and Brian was certain that Kitty's cry for help had come only just in time.

It was early in the evening when Hugo spoke, almost for the first time of his own accord, to his wife. "Kitty," he said, imperiously, "come here."

She came, trembling a little, and stood beside him, scarcely bearing to meet the gaze of those darkly-burning eyes.

"Kitty," he said, looking at her strangely, "I suppose you hate me."

"No," she answered. "No, indeed, Hugo."

"Is that mark on your forehead from the blow I gave you?"

"Yes."

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said, "but I think I was mad just then.

However, it doesn't matter; I am going to die, and you can be happy in your own way. I suppose you will marry Vivian?"

"Don't talk so, Hugo," she said, laying her hand upon his brow.

"Why not? I do not care. Better to die than lie here--here, where Richard Luttrell lay. Kitty, they say I cannot be moved while I live; but if--if you believe that I ever loved you, see that they carry me out of this room as soon as I am dead. Promise me that."

"I promise."

"That is all I want. Marry Vivian, and forget me as soon as you please.

He will never love you as much as I did, Kitty. If I had lived, you would have loved me, too, in time. But it's no use now."

The voice was faint, but sullen. Kitty's heart yearned over him.

"Oh, Hugo," she said, "won't you think of other things? Ask God to forgive you for what you have done: He will forgive you if you repent: He will, indeed."

"Don't talk to me of forgiveness," said Hugo, closing his eyes. "No one forgives: God least of all."

"We forgive you, Hugo," said Kitty, with brimming eyes, "and is God less merciful than ourselves?"

"I will wait till Angela comes," he answered. "I will listen to her. To nobody but her."

And then he relapsed into a half-conscious state, from which she dared not arouse him.

Angela came at night; and she was led almost instantly to the room in which he lay. He opened his eyes as soon as she entered, and fixed them eagerly upon her.

"So you have come," he said. There was a touch of satisfaction in his tone. She knelt down beside him and took his hand. "Talk to me," he murmured.

Kitty and Brian, who had entered with Angela, marvelled at the request.

They marvelled more when she complied with it in a curiously undoubting way. It seemed as if she understood his needs, his peculiarities, even his sins, exactly. She spoke of the holiest things in a simple, direct way, which evidently appealed to something within him; for, though he did not respond, he lay with his eyes fixed upon her face, and gave no sign of discontent.

At last he sighed, and bade her stop.

"It's all wrong," he said, wearily. "I had forgotten. I ought to have a priest."

"There is one waiting downstairs," said Brian.

Hugo started at the voice.

"So you are there?" he said. "Oh, it's no use. No priest would absolve me until--until----"

"Yes: until what?" said Angela. But he made no answer.

Presently, however, he pressed her hand, and murmured:--

"You were always good to me."

"Dear Hugo!"

"And I loved you--a little--not in the way I loved Kitty--but as a saint--an angel. Do you think you could forgive me if I had wronged you!"

"Yes, dear, I believe so."

"If you forgive me, I shall think that there is some hope. But I don't know. Brian is there still, is he not? I have something to say to him."

Brian came forward, a little reluctantly. Hugo looked at him with those melancholy, sunken eyes, in which a sort of fire seemed to smoulder still.

"Brian will never forgive me," he said.

"Yes, Hugo, he will," said Angela.

Brian gave an inarticulate murmur, whether of assent or dissent they could not tell. But he did not look at Hugo's face.

"I know," said Hugo. "It doesn't matter. I don't care. I was justified in what I did."

"You hear," said Brian to Angela, in a very low voice.

But Hugo went on without noticing.

"Justified--except in one thing. And I want to tell you about that."

"You need not," said Brian, quietly. "If it is anything fresh, I do not wish to hear."

"Brian," said Angela, "you are hard."

"No, he is not too hard," Hugo interposed, in a dreamy voice, more as if he were talking to himself than to them. "He was always good to me: he did more for me than anybody else. More than Richard. I always hated Richard. I wished that he was dead." He stopped, and then resumed, with a firmer intonation. "Is Mr. Colquhoun in the house? Fetch him here, and Vivian too, if he is at hand. I have something to say to them."

They did his bidding, and presently the persons for whom he asked stood at his bed-side.

"Are they all here? My eyes are getting dim; it is time I spoke," said Hugo, feebly. "Mr. Colquhoun, I shall want you to take down what I say.

You may make it as public as you like. Angela----"

He felt for her hand. She gave it to him, and let him lean upon her shoulder as he spoke. He looked up in her eyes with a sort of smile.