silence they looked upon each other, her head turned back over her shoulder in an intensity of terror that looked the terror of an infinite guilt, her whole frame shuddering from him, her haughty beauty changed into a shamed and shrinking thing of fear. He, who had prayed that the seas might cover him if once her eyes fell beneath his own, read worse than his death-sentence in that look. His arms, that had been stretched to her sank; out of his gaze, that had sought hers in such eager wonder, all the light died; over his face passed the stern, cold, dark shadow of doubt.
"You fear me—you!"
The words were few, but they bore to her ear a reproach beyond all others—a reproach too noble in its rebuke to quote the thousand claims upon her trust and honour that his acts had gained. They recalled her to herself—to the one memory left her-that he must be saved. Her head fell—she had not strength to look on him:—and she put him backward from her with a piteous gesture.
"I fear for you. Go—go—go! This place is death."
"Your place is mine. Why are you here?"
She answered nothing; she cowered there in the play of the fire's glow, whilst ever and again her
