We will hear him tell the story in his own words, as he told it that day when seated in the gloomy prison-cell, where Maud Langton was expiating her folly in bitterness of soul, he placed in her hands a small metallic case, locked with a tiny key, and said, solemnly and slowly:
"This means freedom and release to you, Maud. It is a legacy to you from the dead."
The beautiful, queenly-looking girl, wasted and worn from long confinement, and sickening dread and terror, looks up at the man's pale, haggard face, at the deep crape band on his hat, and shudders.
"You mean——" she says, then pauses, struck dumb by the white agony of his face.
"I mean I have lost my wife; Reine is dead."
"Dead!" the beautiful prisoner cries in wonder—not sorrow.
That is so plain to his senses, sharpened by grief, that he cries out bitterly:
"Yes, dead! But look at your legacy, Maud. That is all your selfish soul will care for!"
She gives him one look of cold surprise, and then turns eagerly to her treasure.
The small key grates in the lock, the lid of the box flies open.