"I have had a hard time, Frank, but the game is won! The estate is ours! The other son of Gulian Van Huyden is in my power,—"
The words died on his lips. He beheld the dark form of the stranger, and the face of his dying child. The young form clad in a shroud; the countenance pale with death; the large eyes, whose brightness was vailed in a glassy film,—he saw this sad picture at a glance, but could not believe the evidence of his senses.
"Why, Frank, what's all this?" he cried, as with his pale face, marked by wounds, he stood before his daughter.
She slowly raised her eyes, and regarded him with a sad smile.
"The poison, father,—I drank it myself; he went forth from this house safe from all harm—"
Her voice failed.
Tarleton uttered a frightful cry, and fell like a dead man on the floor, his face against the carpet. The reality of the scene had burst upon him; in the hour of his triumph he saw his schemes,—the plans woven through the long course of twenty-one years and darkened by hideous crimes,—leveled in a moment to the dust.
Frank slowly turned her head, and fixed her glassy eyes upon the face of Ernest,—O, the intensity of that long and yearning gaze!
"I am weary and cold," she gasped, "but it is light yonder."
And that was all. Her eyes became fixed,—she laid her head gently on her shoulder, and fell asleep.