"Wretched man!" exclaimed Sybil impulsively snatching away her hand in abhorrence, "You murdered that unhappy woman, of whose death I was falsely accused."
"No, lady; no! Give me your hand again. Mine is not stained with her blood. Thank you," he said, as Sybil laid her hand in his.
"A wild, bad man I was and am, but no murderer; and yet it is no less true that it was through my fault that the poor woman was done to death, and you driven to insanity. That was the reason why I tried to save you by every other means but the only sure one—confession. But now, when a confession will redeem your life without ruining mine—mine—which is over—I have made it, under oath, signed it, and placed it in the hands of your solicitor, lawyer Closeby."
He ceased to speak, and he breathed very hard.
She continued to hold his hand, which grew colder and colder in her clasp.
"Lie down," she whispered gently. "You are too weak to sit up. Lie down."
"No, not yet," he panted hard. "Tell me: do you forgive me?"
"As I hope to be forgiven, I forgive you with all my heart and soul; and I pray to the Lord to pardon you, for the Saviour's sake," said Sybil, earnestly.
"Amen and amen!" faintly aspirated the expiring man. And his frozen hand slipped from Sybil's clasp, and he fell back upon his pillow—DEAD.
Sybil's sudden cry brought the three old women to the bedside.