"No, I feel worse. I'm a dead man."
Margaret clasped her lover in her arms with a long, piercing moan, which resoimded through the night.
"I'm yours no longer, dear unhappy soul,—I belong, by I don't know what fatal, inexorable ties, to darkness and death and nothingness. They stifle me. Do you hear my voice?"
"Ah, senseless clod that I am, I have killed you!"
"I believe it's true. But it's strange. What is it, Margaret?—you're enchanted, baleful, fatal!" He spoke barely above a whisper, as if his voice were leaving him; his breath was cold on her cheek, and his arm heavy on her neck.
"Nay," she cried, "in Heaven's name, go on! say something that will kill me."
"Farewell, farewell!" said Paul, collapsing.
Margaret's cry had been, for the startled household she had left behind her, an index to her halting-place. Father Herbert drew near hastily, with servants and lights. They found Margaret sitting by the roadside, with her feet in a ditch, clasping her lover's inanimate head in her arms, and covering it with kisses, wildly moaning. The sense had left her mind as completely as his body, and it was likely to come back to one as little as to the other.
A great many months naturally elapsed before Mrs. De Grey found herself in the humor to allude directly to the immense calamity which had overwhelmed her house; and when she did so, Father Herbert was surprised to find that she still refused to accept the idea of a supernatural pressure upon her son's life, and that she quietly cherished the belief that he had died of the fall from his horse.
"And suppose Margaret had died? Would to Heaven she had!" said the priest.
"Ah, suppose!" said Mrs. De Grey. "Do you make that wish for the sake of your theory?"
"Suppose that Margaret had had a lover,—a passionate lover,—who had offered her his heart before Paul had ever
