Cicely crept forward; over the dead she went and past the priest till she stood face to face with the prisoner.
“Come nearer and I will dash out your brains,” he said in a hoarse voice, for such light as there was came from behind her whom he thought to be but another of the murderers.
Then at length she found her voice.
“Christopher!” she cried, “Christopher!”
He hearkened, and the stool fell from his hand.
“The Voice again,” he muttered. “Well, ‘tis time. Tarry a while, Wife, I come, I come!” and he fell back against the wall shutting his eyes.
She leapt to him, and throwing her arms about him kissed his lips, his poor, bloodless lips. The shut eyes opened.
“Death might be worse,” he said, “but so I knew that we would meet.”
Now Emlyn, seeing some change in his face, snatched one of the torches from its iron and ran forward, holding it so that the light fell full on Cicely.
“Oh, Christopher,” she cried, “I am no ghost, but your living wife.”