—it could be no more than that, all else was impossible—and yet—and yet— His brain was swimming—to lean forward, raise the lowered head gently, tenderly, and steal his answer from the eyes that, challenged, could not lie! Was he mad!
He rose to his feet, walked abruptly a few yards away, and stood facing the sea. The wind was grateful, whipping his fevered brow; there seemed something akin in the storm-tossed sea to the tempest raging in his own soul. His lips moved for a moment silently; then he turned, went back, and stood before her. She was still seated as he had left her—as though she had not moved.
"I am a convicted murderer"—the words came from him with cold, deliberate steadiness, and it was as though he drew a line upon the sand at her feet between them, across which there was no passing—"I am under sentence for life; I am an escaped convict."
A little cry came from her, as quickly she gained her feet and stood there facing him, her hands clasped suddenly together. She seemed to shiver a little.
"Why—oh, why did you say that!" she faltered.
"Because," he answered monotonously, "sometimes I have dared to forget it—and I must not forget."
"You are an innocent man!" she cried, in a strained voice. "You deny it—but I know."
"You are very good," he said softly, but he did not look at her. High up above him on the cliff a figure stood suddenly silhouetted against the skyline. He dropped his eyes after an instant's glance that she might not notice that anything had attracted his attention.
She stepped to him quickly and raised her face to his.
"Is there nothing—nothing in all the world," she
