A tap on the door warned them that the hour had expired.
"My love, we are in God's hands, whether for life or for death. Let us trust Him," whispered the doctor, as he kissed the lips which were quivering with anguish.
Father Steen looked at Agatha Chenoweth's face as she came out of that dungeon with astonishment and feelings akin to awe. On that grandly beautiful face was the light of love, of resignation, and of high resolve. It was as if she had had a glimpse of a beatific vision, instead of a noisome cell—perchance an open grave!
To this weary devotee of the Church, striving but never achieving, seeking peace and finding unrest; to this man, who considered love a crime and joy an unpardonable sin, this look was a revelation. It showed him heights of Christian attainment which he had never scaled.
In silence the two retraced their steps to the chapel door. In the shadow was Conrad Chenoweth. The priest took Madam's hand a moment and pressed it gently.
"I have redeemed my pledge as a Flemish gentleman," he said, placing the hand within Conrad's arms." I shall never permit myself to look upon your face again. Farewell." Nor did he pause to listen to the broken words of thanks which fell from Madam's lips.
