Monsieur Judas: A Paradox

by Fergus Hume

Extracts From a Detective's Note-Book

". . . I have seen Judas, and he made a strange confession . . . He actually saw the person who committed the crime put the pills into the box . . . The name was hardly a surprise to me . . . I thought Miss Varlins was guilty, but hardly thought my suspicions would be confirmed so soon . . . Poor Roger, it will be a terrible blow to him to learn that the woman he loves is guilty of such a terrible crime . . . I don't believe she ever loved Roger . . . all her passions were centred on Melstane . . . He must have been a wonderfully fascinating scamp . . . I don't know why I should pity Judith Varlins . . . She has treated Roger shamefully . . . She has treated Florry Marson shamefully . . . for she pretended to love the one and killed the lover of the other . . . Her handkerchief has betrayed her . . . She will be a very clever woman if she can get out of that . . . The evidence of the handkerchief . . . the evidence of Judas are both dead against her . . .

"Mem.—To write to Marson asking for an interview.

". . . I will take up Judas and Roger with me, so as to convict her of the crime . . . It will be a terrible ordeal for the poor boy, but anything is better than that he should marry a murderess . . . This was the reason she refused to let me see the letters . . . some of her own were there, betraying her guilty passion . . . She has been playing a double game all through, but now she is brought to book at last . . . She must be a woman of iron nerve . . . Her adopted sister is lying dangerously ill from the consequences of Judith's crime . . . from the sudden intelligence that the man she loved is dead, and yet Judith can still wear her mask and play the part of a sick-nurse . . . She must be a perfect fiend . . . Lucrezia Borgia fin de siècle . . . I expect to have a terrible scene to-morrow night . . . Poor Roger! . . .

"Judas is an incarnate devil . . . I wish he was the guilty one instead of Judith Varlins . . . Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to put the irons on him."

[Chapter 16]

The Man Who Loved Her

Have you ever been in the tropics? If so, you must know how cruel the sun can be to the unhappy Europeans grilling under its ardent rays. It does not invigorate, nor tan the skin overmuch, nor make one think life is a good thing; but it enervates the system, it relaxes the muscles, it dulls the brain, until the body is nothing but a worn-out shell, that moves, and rests, and lies down, and stands up in a mechanical fashion, like an automaton. It was like this that Judith felt after the terrible interview with Guinaud, and she went the round of her daily duties in a dull, listless manner, that showed how greatly her vital force had been exhausted by the ordeal she had undergone. With constant attendance on the invalid, and anxious thoughts about the position of affairs with regard to the Frenchman, she was worn out mentally and physically.

At present it was difficult to come to any decision relative to Florry's illness as the crisis had not yet come, and youth, health, and love of life were all fighting desperately against the shadow of death. The shock sustained by Florry on hearing of the untimely end of her lover had quite unsettled her brain, and the balance was trembling between health and sickness, between sanity and insanity, between life and death. She needed constant watching, for at times, in the most unexpected manner, she would spring from her bed and try to leave the room, bound on some fantastic journey created by the excited state of her brain. At other times she lay languid and exhausted, with dim, unseeing eyes, raving madly about her lover and the unforeseen calamity of his death. Afraid to trust this fragile life to the care of a hired nurse, Judith herself sat by the bedside, and ministered to the wants of the sick girl, holding the cool drink to the fevered lips, bathing the feverish brow, and arranging with loving hand the disordered bed-clothes.

It was bad enough in the day to sit in the twilight of the sick-room listening to the aimless chatter that came from the white lips, but it was worse at night. The sombre shadows that hung over all, the faint glimmer of the shaded lamp, the uncanny stillness of the house, and nothing awake but the sick girl with her pathetic pleadings, her causeless laughter, and the incessant stream of disconnected wanderings. No wonder Judith was quite worn out with constant watching; much, however, as she needed rest, she never surrendered her weary post by the bed, but sat, watchful and tender, during the long hours, only calling in the nurse when the paroxysms seized the invalid. All through the endless night succeeding the interview she had sat like a stone image in the sick-room, going over in her own tortured mind all that Guinaud had said. The morning broke dull and gray, and the nurse insisted upon her resting for a time. Rest! there was no such luxury for her; for even when lying down, her weary brain went mechanically over the old ground, imagining a thousand terrors, and agonising itself with a thousand pangs.

At last she slept for a time, but it was no refreshing slumber such as would bring relief. No! nothing but dreams, strange, horrible dreams, in all of which Judas, cruel and merciless, was the central figure; so in despair of gaining quiet in any way, she arose in the afternoon, and returned to her post by the side of Florry.

At four o'clock a card was brought to her bearing the name of Roger Axton, and a few lines scribbled thereon asking her to see him at once. With a start of terror, she wondered whether Judas had been to Axton, and revealed anything; but remembering that silence was as necessary to Judas as to herself, she dismissed this fear as idle, and having called in the nurse, descended to the drawing-room.

Roger was there, pacing restlessly to and fro like a caged lion, but when she entered he stopped at once, and looked at her fixedly as she came towards him in her sweeping black dress. Worn and haggard both of them, anxious and apprehensive both of them, they looked like two criminals meeting for the first time after the commission of a secret crime.

On seeing Roger's altered face, Judith also paused and gazed at him with a terrified look in her dilated eyes. They stood silently looking at one another for a single moment, but in that moment the agony of a lifetime was concentrated.

At last Roger spoke in a low, smothered tone, as if the words issued from his white lips against his will.

"No! no! I cannot believe it."

This speech broke the strange spell that held Judith motionless, and stealing forward she touched him lightly on the shoulder as he sank into a chair, covering his wild face with his hands.

"Roger!"

No answer. Only the short quick breath of the man and the soft rustle of the woman's dress.

"Roger, what is the matter?"

He looked up suddenly, hollow-eyed and shrinking, with a wild, questioning look on his worn face.

"I—I—have been told something."

"By—by that Frenchman?"

"Yes!"

"My God!" she muttered to herself, falling nerveless into a chair, "what has he told him?"

"He has told me all!"

"All?"

"He has told not only me but Fanks!"

"The detective?"

"Yes."

She hid her face in her hands with a startled cry, at which he sprang quickly from his chair and flung himself on his knees beside her.

"Oh, my love—my love!" he cried, entreatingly, "you are innocent; you are innocent. I know you are!"

"I innocent?"

She was looking down at him with an expression of amazement on her face, the beauty of which was marred by tears, by weariness, and by anxious thought.

"Yes! I'll swear you did not kill him!"

"Kill whom?"

"Sebastian Melstane!"

"I kill Sebastian Melstane?" she cried, rising quickly, and drawing herself up to her full height. "Who dares to accuse me of such a thing?"

"Judas!"

"That wretch?"

"Yes; but you are innocent; I know you are innocent."

"Why?"

"Because I love you!"

Judith looked down at the man kneeling at her feet with a look of infinite gratitude in her eyes, and passed her hand caressingly over his dishevelled hair.

"Poor boy, how true you are! You are willing to believe in my innocence without my denial."

"I am!"

She sat down, again, caught his head between her two hands and kissed him softly on the forehead. As she did so, he felt a hot tear fall on his cheek, and when he looked at her she was crying.

"Judith!" he cried, with sudden terror, "you are weeping."

"Yes. May God always send mankind such true hearts as yours!"

"I would be unworthy of your love if I did not believe you before all the lying scoundrels in the world."

"Alas, Don Quixote!"

"But you can explain everything, Judith. I feel certain you can."

"I can explain when I hear your story. At present I know nothing beyond the fact that Monsieur Guinaud has accused me of a vile crime. What does he say?"

Roger, still kneeling by her side, told the story as related to him by Fanks, and at the conclusion eagerly waited for her denial.

She said nothing, but sat in sombre silence, with her eyes fixed beyond his head in a vague, unseeing manner.

"Judith!" he cried, desperately, "do you not hear what I say? This scoundrel says that you visited Melstane at night and put those two pills into the box with the intention of poisoning him."

Still she said nothing, and Roger felt a feeling of horror arise in his breast as he watched her face, so cold, so frozen, so impassive in its fixed calm.

"He has your handkerchief to prove that you were there. Judith, speak!"

All at once the still figure became endowed with life, and with a choking cry she tore herself from his encircling arms, and sprang across the room.

"Judith!"

In a frenzy of dread he leaped up from his kneeling position, and went rapidly towards her with outstretched hands.

"Stop!" she cried, wildly, shrinking against the wall, "stop!"

"Speak, speak! You must speak and deny this story."

"I cannot."

"Judith."

"I cannot!"

"My God!" he said, in a hoarse whisper, "is it true?"

"I cannot answer you."

Roger felt the room spin round him, and, reeling back, caught at a chair for support, while he gazed with horror-filled eyes at the woman he loved, standing there so rigid and speechless.

"Judith, you do not mean what you say," he cried entreatingly, "you cannot understand. Judas says you murdered Melstane. He can prove it, he says, by the handkerchief. He has told Fanks, who is a detective. You are in danger. I cannot save you. Great Heaven! if you have any pity for me—if you have any pity for yourself, speak and give the lie to this foul accusation."

"I cannot, I tell you, Roger, I cannot!"

"You are innocent!"

"I cannot say."

"Are you guilty?"

"I cannot say."

Axton passed his hand over his brow in a bewildered fashion, hardly knowing if he were asleep or awake, then, with a sudden resolution of despair, flung himself on his knees at her feet.

"Judith! Judith! you must speak, you must. See me kneeling at your feet. I love you, I love you! I do not believe this vile story. In my eyes you are innocent. But the world—think of the world. It will deem you guilty if you cannot defend yourself. Judas has you in his power. He is a merciless wretch. He hates you. He will drag you down to infamy and disgrace, unless you can clear yourself of this crime. Speak for your own sake—for mine. Do not let this devil triumph over you, for Heaven's sake. Deny his foul lies, and let him be punished as he deserves. Speak, for the love of God, speak!"

Judith said nothing, but the quick panting of her breath, the nervous tremor agitating her frame, and the rapid opening and shutting of her hands showed how she was moved.

"She says nothing," said Axton to himself, as he arose slowly to his feet, "she is silent. What does it mean?"

He made one last effort to induce her to deny the accusation of Judas.

"You will not speak!" he said, in tones of acute anguish. "I have knelt, I have prayed; you are silent. I can do nothing. You are innocent, I'll swear; but I cannot prove it. No one can prove it but yourself, and you say nothing. Judith, listen! You are in deadly peril. Fanks is coming up to-night with Judas, and they will accuse you of this crime!"

"To-night?"

"Yes; they have written to Mr. Marson. They will produce the handkerchief. They will tell the story. You refuse to answer me; you must answer them. Fanks told me of this to-day, and I came up at once to warn you."

"It is useless! I can say nothing."

"You must say something. It is a question of life and death. The affair is in the hands of the law. Nothing can save you but your own denial. You must prove the falseness of this horrible story. It means disgrace. It means prison! It means death!"

She looked up suddenly as he spoke those last words, and crossing over to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, speaking wildly, and with uncontrollable agitation.

"I know what it means. You need not tell me that. I know it means the smirching of my fair fame as a woman, I know that it condemns me to an ignominious death; but I can say nothing. Roger, on my soul, I can say nothing. I cannot say I am innocent; I dare not say I am guilty. I must be silent. I must be dumb. Let them say what they like; let them do what they like; my honour and my life rest in the hands of God, and He alone can save me."

"But you are innocent!"

She burst into tears.

"Oh, why do you torture me like this? I tell you I can say nothing; not even to you. My lips are sealed. Let them come up to-night; let them accuse me; let them drag me to prison. I can say nothing. For days, for nights I have dreaded this, now it has come at last. You believe me innocent, my true-hearted lover, but the world will believe me guilty. Let them do so. God knows my sufferings. God knows my anguish, and in His hands I leave myself for good or ill."

He heard her with bowed head, and at the end of her speech he felt a soft kiss on his hair. When he looked up the room was empty.

"Judith!"

There was no reply, and the only sound he heard was the distant slamming of a door that seemed to his agonised imagination to separate him from the woman he loved—for ever.

[Chapter 17]

The Guessing of the Riddle

Francis Marson was considerably perplexed at receiving a note from Fanks, asking for an interview. He guessed at once that Judas had broken faith and unbosomed himself to the detective, but what puzzled him was the reason the Frenchman had for such betrayal. In order to secure the success of his schemes, it was necessary that he should keep silent, yet he had evidently voluntarily revealed his secret knowledge, and thus rendered it useless to himself and his designs. The only way in which Marson could account for the detective's request was that he must have learned the secret of Judas, otherwise there would be no reason why he should seek an interview.

Filled with this idea, Marson summoned up all his courage, and prepared to meet the coming storm with as brave a front as possible. He wrote to Fanks, and told him he would be prepared to see him at eight o'clock that night; then he shut himself up in his study for the rest of the day. Plunged in gloomy reflections, he saw no one, not even Judith; but as the hour approached when he expected his visitor to arrive he was unable to bear his trial in solitude any longer, so, sending for Judith, he told her about the interview. To his surprise, she received the communication with great equanimity, and being in ignorance of her forewarning by Roger, he could not but admire the undaunted spirit with which she was prepared to face the terrible trouble coming to them both.

On her side, Judith saw plainly that Marson was almost distracted by nervous terror and dread of the impending evil, so she did not think it wise to reveal to him the dangerous position in which she was placed. He would learn it in due time; but, meanwhile, she preserved a gloomy silence, and told her adopted father that she would be by his side during the ordeal, in order to support him to the best of her ability. Poor soul, she knew how futile that support would be, but with stern self-repression kept her forebodings locked in her own heart, and Francis Marson felt to a great extent comforted in knowing that he had at least one friend to stand by him in the hour of peril.

It was nearly eight o'clock when Judith entered the study, and found Marson seated at his writing-table, with his gray head buried in his arms. A spasm of agony distorted the calm of her face as she saw the abject terror of the old man; however, repressing all signs of emotion, she moved slowly across the room, and touched him tenderly on the shoulder. He looked up with a startled cry, but was somewhat reassured by the peacefulness of her expression. No marble statue in its eternal calm looked so void of passion and human fear as this tall, pale woman who masked the anguish of her aching heart under an impassive demeanour. Every emotion, every pang, every terror was expressed on the withered countenance of the old man; but she was cold, expressionless, still, as if all human feeling had been frozen in her soul.

Their eyes met for a moment, and from the dim eyes of the man, from the splendid eyes of the woman, there leapt forth a sudden look of mutual dread, of mutual anguish, and horrible suspense. That look spoke all, and they had no need of words to explain their feelings, so Judith sat down near the fire, and Marson resumed his chair at the desk in ominous silence.

At last Marson spoke, low and timidly, as if he feared his words would be trumpeted forth to the four quarters of the world.

"Is Florry better?"

"No, I think she is worse to-night. Very excitable and restless."

"Oh, Judith! Was it wise of you to leave her?"

"She is in good hands. Dr. Japix is with her."

"Japix!" repeated the old man, starting. "I'm sorry about that. On this night of all nights I wish no one in the house!"

"It doesn't matter," replied Judith, feigning an indifference she was far from feeling; "what we know to-night all the world will know to-morrow."

"Good heavens, I hope not!"

"We can expect nothing else from such a man as Judas."

"You mean Guinaud."

"I mean Judas! The name suits such a traitor."

"But why should he act as he is doing?"

"I don't know."

"It is against his own interests."

"Heaven only knows what he considers to be his interests," said Judith, bitterly, "but anything is better than that he should marry Florry!"

"Do you think he would consent to take money instead?"

"I think it's too late to offer any terms. Remember, to-night we deal with the law."

"But Fanks is a friend of Roger Axton."

Judith shuddered, and covered her face with her hands.

"Yes, I know he is," she said, in a low voice; "but Roger can do nothing to help us."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. He told me so this afternoon."

"You saw him?"

"I did!"

Marson was about to speak, but the sombre expression of her face forbade him to ask further questions, and he remained silent.

The minutes seemed to fly by on wings of lightning to this unhappy man and woman, who waited with shuddering dread for the approach of that horror from which they could not escape.

A knock at the door, and then Marks flung it wide open, announcing three visitors.

"Mr. Fanks, Mr. Axton, Monsieur Guinaud."

"Roger," said Judith to herself, with a sudden pang at her heart, as the servant retired. "Oh, the humiliation!"

Marson greeted his three visitors with a grave bow, and they all sat down in silence. There was a sullen look on the face of Judas, for he felt that he had been undiplomatic in his dealings with the detective, and that all his well-laid schemes would come to naught now that his secret was made known.

On the other hand, Fanks appeared serenely confident that things were going as he wished them, but an uneasy expression on his face as he glanced furtively at Judith, showed that he was by no means pleased with the unexpected discovery he had made. Roger said nothing, but sat looking at the carpet with downcast eyes, the very picture of misery and despair.

"You wish to see me, I understand from your letter, sir," said Marson to the detective, in a dull, hopeless voice.

"Yes; with regard to the death of Sebastian Melstane."

"I know nothing about his death."

"Nothing?" repeated Fanks, with great emphasis.

Mr. Marson flushed all over his worn face, and he glanced rapidly at Judith, then repeated his former denial with great deliberation.

"I know nothing about his death."

"Do you know anything, Miss Varlins?"

"I? how should I know?"

"I'm sorry to speak rudely to a lady," said Fanks, suavely, "but this is equivocation."

She looked despairingly at him with the expression of a trapped animal in her eyes, a mute appeal for mercy, but the detective steeled his heart against her, and spoke plainly:

"Do you remember a visit you paid the late Mr. Melstane at Binter's boarding-house during the early part of the month of November?"

"No, I do not."

"Do you recognise this handkerchief?" said Octavius, holding it out to her.

"No. It is a lady's white handkerchief. How should I recognise it?"

"By the name in the corner."

She glanced rapidly at the embroidery, and seeing the fatal name "Judith," let her head fall on her breast with a gesture of despair.

"Do you recognise the handkerchief now?" asked Fanks, with merciless deliberation.

"Yes! It is mine!"

"Do you know where it was found?"

"No!"

"It was found in the sitting-room of Mr. Melstane by this gentleman," said Octavius, pointing to Judas.

She raised her eyes, and her glance followed the direction of his outstretched finger. Hate, contempt, dread, and defiance were all expressed in that rapid look, and Judas shrank back with a feeble smile from the scathing scorn in her eyes.

"This being the case, Miss Varlins," resumed Fanks, coolly, "it is useless for you to deny that you were at Binter's boarding-house on the night in question."

"I do deny it!" she said, resolutely. "I was not at Binter's any night during November; I never saw Mr. Melstane during November. I know nothing about his death!"

Octavius laid the handkerchief on the table with a resolute expression.

"I see I must refresh your memory, Miss Varlins," he said, coolly. "Sebastian Melstane died at Jarlchester on the 13th of November by taking, in all innocence, a morphia pill, which was placed among certain tonic pills he was in the habit of taking. When I find the person who placed the two morphia pills in the box I find the murderer of Sebastian Melstane. Monsieur Guinaud will now resume the story."

Monsieur Judas bowed his head gracefully, and spoke slowly in his vile English.

"At the nights before my frien' Melstane go to Jarlcesterre une dame find him chez lui. I at de vinda stay and overt mes yeux. Mon ami, ce cher Sebastian does go from ze appartement an' zen behold moi ze dame plaze dans un boite à pilules quelque chose, je ne sais quoi."

"Speak English, if you please," said Fanks, sharply.

"Eh, c'est difficile, mais oui. She puts in ze boxes somezing, I knows no wat; zen mon cher ami come again an' ze leave par la fenêtre. I do look after zem, an' see ze mouchoir now wis Monsieur Fanks. Dat is all I speak. La voila."

Roger, who had hitherto kept silent during the whole of this scene, so terrible in its intensity, now sprang to his feet with a cry of rage.

"It's a lie—a lie!" he said, savagely. "Fanks! Marson! you surely don't believe this man—this vile wretch who would sell his soul for money? He killed Melstane himself—I am sure of it!—and tells this lie to ruin an innocent woman and to save his own worthless life. Look at him, all of you? The spy—the traitor—the defamer—the poisoner."

Judas was standing by his chair, breathing heavily, with his face a ghastly white, and his eyes narrowed to their most dangerous expression. So vile, so craven, so treacherous he looked, that all present involuntarily shrank from him with loathing.

"Monsieur!" he said, in his sibilant voice, speaking rapidly in his own tongue, to which he always reverted when excited, "you are a liar and a fool! I did not kill my friend. Bah! I mock myself of that accusation. Think you that I would be here, if I was what you say? What I speak is the truth of the great God! What I declare, I saw! My friend died by the devil-thought of a woman. And that woman is there!"

He pointed straight at Judith, with a long, lean, cruel hand, and the eyes of all, leaving his tall, slim figure, rested on Judith Varlins. She stood still and mute as if she were turned to a statue of stone, and for the space of a minute not a movement was made by any of the actors in this strange drama.

"What do you say to this accusation, Miss Varlins?" asked Fanks, in a tone of deep pity.

"I say nothing."

The words dropped slowly from her white lips, and then the overstrained nerves of the woman gave way, and with a low moan of acute anguish, she sank down in a faint on the floor. Roger sprang forward and raised her in his arms, but Judas, with a mocking, sardonic laugh, tossed his long arms in the air, and burst out into a jeering speech.

"Yes, yes! Take her in your arms! Lift her from the ground, but you cannot lift her again to her purity of a woman. She is lost, the woman you loved. In her place you find the murderess. Ah! it is a good play!"

This cowardly triumphing was too much even for the phlegmatic Fanks, and with a suppressed oath he strode up to the gibing villain.

"If you say another word, you despicable blackguard, I will kill you!"

The Frenchman turned on him with the snarling ferocity of a tiger.

"Eh, you will kill me, my brave! Is it that I am a child you can rage at with your big words? Miserable English that you are, I spit upon you! I, Jules Guinaud, laugh at your largeness. Eh! I believe well. You are afraid of what I say; but I keep not the silence, holy blue! Bah! your sweet English lady, she is a criminal!"

"You lie!" shouted Roger, madly, starting to his feet. "You lie, you wretch! Marson! Fanks! Get me some water! She has fainted. And as for you, scoundrel—"

He advanced towards Judas with clenched fists, whereupon the Frenchman, with a look of fear on his gray face, recoiled against the wall. But not even the threatening attitude of the young man could restrain the gibing devil that possessed this villain, and with a shrill scream of laughter he went on with his insults.

"For me the box, monsieur. But certainly, you are wise—you are very wise. Come, now, if you are bold—I hide not the truth, I declare—if your angel is not the one who killed the dear Melstane, say, who is it? Declare the name."

Roger, with glittering eyes, and a fierce look on his face, would have sprung on Judas and caught him by the throat, when the answer to the question came from a most unexpected quarter.

Outside the room there was a shrill scream, the heavy tramping of feet, and a woman in her nightgown dashed madly into their midst.

It was Florry Marson!

In her eyes shone the fever of insanity, on her dry lips a fearful laugh of horrible laughter, and she whirled round and round in the middle of the room like a Maenad, while Japix, who had followed her, tried vainly to approach.

"God! How like her mother!"

The cry of horror came from the lips of Marson, who was holding a glass of water to the lips of Judith; but his daughter did not hear him. With a shriek she stopped her insensate whirling, and dashed forward with distorted features to Monsieur Judas.

"Hold her! hold her!" cried Japix, "she is mad—raving."

Judas was too terrified to do anything, and stood nerveless and paralysed, facing this ghastly spectre with the loose hair, the frantic gestures, and blazing eyes.

"What have you done with him?" shrieked Florry, making futile clutches at Judas, "you fiend! you reptile! Why did I not kill you instead of Sebastian?"

A cry of horror burst from the lips of the listeners.

"Give him to me! give him to me!" howled the mad woman, "you know I killed him! I did not mean it! I did not mean it! The devil told me about the morphia. Hist! I will tell you! His name is Spolger. He lives in the big house on the hill. He has poison. Oh, yes, yes! I know. I stole it to give Sebastian—poor Sebastian."

"Gentlemen," cried Marson, piteously, "do not believe her. This is raving."

"I believe it's the truth," said Fanks, solemnly.

Japix advanced towards Florry, but she saw him coming, and with a shriek of anger, darted towards the study table, upon which she sprang with the activity of an antelope. Her foot touched the lamp, it fell over, and in a moment the fierce flame had caught her light draperies, and she stood before the horrified spectators a pillar of flame.

"I burn! I burn!" she screamed. "Sebastian, help! help! it is my punishment! It is—God! God! save me—save me."

Roger tore down one of the curtains and ran to her assistance, but she bounded off the table, and running to Judas flung her arms round his neck. With a yell of terror he tried to fling her off, but she only clung the closer, and the flames caught his clothes.

"Save me, Sebastian, I did not mean to kill you. Ah, ah!"

"Mon Dieu, help me!"

Both Fanks and Roger flung themselves on the writhing pair, who were now rolling on the floor, and they managed to extinguish the flames. Florry was terribly burnt, and the Frenchman had fainted. Old Marson on his knees was praying feebly, and Judith, recovering from her stupor, rose slowly up.

"What is the matter?"

The answer came in a wailing voice from the brokenhearted father:

"The judgment of God! The judgment of God!"