tracted when she hears of what has happened to you?"
"No," said the other bitterly, "she will not go distracted; she has had enough of me. And I shall have the pain of dying unrevenged upon the knave who robbed me of her!"
In the Church.
It was strange to see how in a moment his eyes had grown ablaze with passion. The young man looked at him in astonishment.
"Who was it?" he inquired.
"Who was it?" echoed the other. "Do you think, if I knew that, that I should now have cause to writhe at dying without crying quits with him? No, I do not know him. I only know she loved me—that she cooled towards me—that, when I asked her plainly whether she had found a younger and a better-looking man, she confessed that it was true, and threw herself upon my generosity to set her free from our engagement. I did so—in a frenzy of mad passion. But when I asked her for his name, she would not tell me, fearing, I dare say, that I might twist his neck. I should soon have found him; but then this war broke out, and in my rage I could not keep myself from rushing to the fight, to cool my blood with blows. And so, here I am—going to be shot at daybreak. But I swear to Heaven, if I only had that fellow in my power for one brief minute, I could die contented."
"You are right," said the other; "I should feel the same."
Quixarvyn drew a portrait from his breast, and held it out to his companion.
"Look," he said, "is this a face to jilt a man? though it is one to drive him crazy. Let me look at yours—it is not more innocent than this one, I dare swear."
The young man took the portrait, and at the same time handed him his own. Each looked in silence at the portrait in his hand—in a silence of amazement, of stupefaction. The two portraits represented the same person!
Quixarvyn was the first to break the silence.
"What!" he said, drawing a deep breath and bursting into a low laugh, which was both fierce and glad, "you, was it? To think that I have found you after all! Fate is kinder to me than I fancied."
The other returned his gaze.
"Well," he said, "it was I, it appears; though I never knew it, nor suspected it. And," he added simply, "it has been no one's fault."
"No one's fault?"
"No, no one's. Mary Seldon liked you, but she did not love you, and when we met she found out her mistake. You frightened her with your mad humours. Without mentioning your name she told me the whole story. You could not make her
