“But I thought there was robbery,” said she.
“Not by me. But, for God's sake, talk no more about it. I am sick—my brain is going round. I want to sleep.”
“Be careful, please! Lift him gently!” said Mrs. Carr, as the boat ranged alongside the Dido, gaunt and grim, in the early dawn of a bleak May morning.
“What's the matter?” asked the officer of the watch, perceiving the bustle in the boat.
“Gentleman seems to have had a stroke,” said a boatman.
It was so. There was no fear that John Rex would escape again from the woman he had deceived. The infernal genius of Sarah Purfoy had saved her lover at last—but saved him only that she might nurse him till he died—died ignorant even of her tenderness, a mere animal, lacking the intellect he had in his selfish wickedness abused.
CHAPTER XVII. THE REDEMPTION.
——“That is my story. Let it plead with you to turn you from your purpose, and to save her. The punishment of sin falls not upon the sinner only. A deed once done lives in its consequence for ever, and this tragedy of shame and crime to which my felon's death is a fitting end, is but the outcome of a selfish sin like yours!”