CHAPTER XXXIV.

EXPLANATIONS.

"Mine after life! What is mine after life? My day is closed! The gloom of night is come! A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate."--JOANNA BAILLIE.

"Willard! Willard! Willard!"

With his own name breathed in his ears by the voice he never expected to hear again; with the small, fair face, the deep blue eyes, and waving golden hair of Christie bending over him, Willard Drummond lay scarcely daring to breathe, unable to speak, gazing with wild, wondering, incredulous eyes upon the angel-face he had never expected to behold on earth more.

"Willard! Willard! My own Willard! Only say you know me! only speak to me once more before I die!" was the wild cry that sighed in his ear in the tones of that never-to-be-forgotten voice.

He pressed his hands to his forehead, like one in a dream.

"Am I mad?" he said, slowly; "or am I dead, and see Christie again in the world of spirits?"

"Willard! Willard! we both live! Oh, Willard, thank Heaven you were spared the guilt of my death! Oh, Willard! I am not dead; do not, _do not_ look at me so wildly!"

"Can this be only the delirium of a dream?" he said, passing his hand over his brow, in the same troubled and bewildered way.

No, it was not a dream! No phantom of the imagination ever could have clasped him with such yearning, clinging arms; ever could have held his head on such a warm, throbbing breast; ever could have looked into his face with such passionate, undying love; ever could have showered upon him such passionate caresses.

He awoke to the reality at last. Springing up in bed where he lay, he gazed upon her as if doubting the evidence of his senses.

"Oh, Willard! Oh, my husband! I am not dead; I was only wounded! I live still to say I forgive you all that is past!"

"Great Heaven! am I sane or mad?" he said, in a low, deep, wondering voice.

She approached, caught both his hands in hers, and kneeling down before him, said:

"Willard, look at me! feel my hands! my face! Listen to my words! see me kneeling before you! and believe I am your own faithful, loving Christie still!"

"Then _she_ may be saved yet!" was his wild cry, as unheeding the slender girl kneeling at his feet, he sprang from the bed, with the one thought of Sibyl ever, ever uppermost in his mind.

"_Who_, Willard?"

"Sibyl! Sibyl! my wronged Sibyl!"

At the words, at the name, her blissful dream faded away. The past, the dreary, wretched past came back, and Christie's head dropped heavily on the bed.

He was scarcely in his right senses yet, but the action, and, above all, the necessity of haste restored him to himself; and stunned, bewildered, giddy with many emotions, he sank into a chair and strove to collect his thoughts.

"I know not yet whether I am sleeping or waking," he said, incoherently. "Christie--where are you? Come here; let me see you again, that I may know whether all this is not a vision of a disordered brain, that will fade away as many a similar one has done."

She arose, and with a face as perfectly colorless as a snow-wreath, stood before him.

He took her hand, so small, and warm, and transparent that it looked like an infant's; and pushing back the full golden hair off the fine white brow, gazed long and earnestly into the depths of the large blue eyes, now so unspeakably sad, so deeply reproachful. So long did he gaze that Christie's eyes fell at last, and the golden lashes swept her cheek, while the eloquent blood mantled for a moment to her snowy brow.

"Yes, this is Christie--alive still, and yet so long mourned for as dead," he said slowly. "This is strange; this is wonderful. Christie, how comes this to pass? How is it that, after so many months given up for dead, I find you alive still in this forest cottage?"

"Oh, Willard, Willard! can _you_ ask, after that dreadful night?" she said, in a tone of unutterable sorrow and reproach.

"That dreadful night? _What_ dreadful night, Christie?" he said, looking bewildered.

"Oh, Willard, what a question for you to ask! That you could ever for one instant forget that night of storm and crime!"

"Christie, as Heaven hears me, I know not what you mean. Do you allude to that tempestuous night on which you were supposed to be murdered?"

"Oh, you know I do! You know I do! Oh, Willard, Willard! that _you_ should speak of it like this!" she said, in that low tone of saddest reproach.

"Christie, there is some misunderstanding here. Do you mean to say that _I_ was with you that night?" he said, vehemently.

She did not reply, but her eyes answered the question.

"Christie, as there is a Heaven above us, I never set foot on the island from the day we parted there after your telling me of your interview with Sibyl!" said Willard, impetuously.

"And the note?" she said, faintly.

"Do you mean the note appointing our meeting on the beach that night of mystery?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"Christie, I sent that note, but I never went--_never_! I swear it by all that is sacred! That very hour I received news that my father was dying, which obliged me to start instantly for home, without even an opportunity of apprising you. Christie, that night I spent fifty miles away from the island."

She gasped for breath, grew deadly pale, and sank into a chair.

"Christie, Christie! do you not believe me?"

She lifted her eyes. There was truth in his face; and, with the wild flash of sudden joy, she cried out:

"I do! I do! I do! Oh, Willard, thank Heaven for this! Thank Heaven that you never raised your hand against my life!"

"Christie!"

"Oh, I do not wonder at your look of horror; but, all those weary months, I thought so. Oh, Willard, dearest, can you ever forgive me for wronging you so?"

"Christie!"

"Forgive me! forgive me! Oh, my husband, forgive me! But on that night, that awful night, I was met on the beach and stabbed by a man."

"Heavens and earth! And you thought it was I?"

"Willard, Willard, forgive me! But oh! what else _could_ I think? _You_ appointed the meeting. I went, was met there by a tall man, stabbed by him, and left for dead on the shore."

"And you could believe _I_ could do such a deed! Oh, Christie, Christie!" he said, with bitter reproach.

"Oh, how could I help it? How could I help it? The thought was maddening: but how could I think otherwise? Say, only say, you forgive me, Willard!"

"I forgive you, Christie; but you have far the most to forgive. What strange, fathomless mystery all this is? Who was the man, Christie?"

"I do not know! I have no idea! Oh, I thought I had not an enemy in the wild world."

"Is there no clew? Is there no means by which you could recognize him again?"

"None! none! you forget the storm; the darkness: the deep darkness of that night."

"True! but heavens! what am I thinking of!" he said, starting up wildly. "Why do I linger an instant here, when it is in my power to save Sibyl from the ignominious death of the halter."

"What!"

As if a mine had exploded beneath her, Christie sprang up, with blanched face, starting eyes, clenched hands, and livid lips, gazing upon him in speechless horror.

"Christie, she was arrested, tried, condemned, and doomed to die, for your murder."

"For mine! Father in heaven!" gasped the almost fainting Christie.

"It may not be too late to save her yet. You must come with me, Christie. Hasten! hasten! Every moment is precious now."

"Oh, this is awful! awful! Oh, Willard, when does this most unnatural sentence take place?"

"The day after to-morrow. With all our speed we will be barely able to reach the spot in time."

"Most horrible!" said Christie, with a convulsive shudder. "How came she ever to be suspected of such a deed?"

"Oh, there was a damning chain of circumstantial evidence, strong enough to convict an angel from above. I have no time to tell you now; on our way I will tell you all. Merciful Heaven! if we should be too late."

"I will go instantly! I will be ready in a moment." said Christie, wildly, as she hurriedly threw on her wrappings.

"But not in this storm, Christie. Does thee not hear how it rages?" anxiously said Uncle Reuben, who all this time had been a silent, wondering listener. "Thee must not venture out to-night."

"Oh, I must! I must! the life of a fellow-creature depends upon it," said Christie, tying on her large mantle with trembling haste.

Willard Drummond paused for a moment in dismay, to listen to the storm howling through the trees, and glance at the frail, fragile little figure before him. But the thought of Sibyl in peril--of that dreadful death--steeled his heart against every other feeling.

"She must be saved, let what will follow," he mentally exclaimed.

"Thee will never be able to make thy way through this storm, Christie," said Reuben, rising in still increasing anxiety; "in thy delicate state of health, too. Listen to the wind and rain."

"Oh! I hear it! I hear it! But though it rained fire from heaven, I should have to go."

"Thee will never survive this night, if thee ventures out," said Uncle Reuben, solemnly.

"What matters it? My life is worthless, so hers is saved," she said, with sorrowful bitterness.

Willard Drummond's heart smote him; and some of the old love revived in his heart that moment for poor Christie.

"Christie, thee will perish with fatigue."

"Oh, no; I'll not. This inward strength will sustain me. I will live, I must live, I shall live, to save Sibyl Campbell. I feel it; an inward voice tells me so."

"Then thee is determined to go?" said Uncle Reuben, sorrowfully.

"I must. Duty calls me. Dear Uncle Reuben, good-by."

"Will thee ever come back, little Christie?" he said, holding the little hand she extended in both his.

"As Heaven wills! I fear not. But--Uncle Reuben--dear, good, Uncle Reuben--if I do not, you will come to see me die?"

"Oh, dearest Christie!" his honest voice choked, and he stopped.

"Good-by, Bertha. Kiss Christie once more."

She put her arms round the neck of the maniac, whose eyes were fixed wistfully on her face. "Going away?" she said, in a tone of vague surprise.

"Yes, dearest friend; and if I never come back, you must not quite forget me."

"Christie! Christie! my wife! my injured, long-suffering wife, do not talk so! I cannot bear it!" said Willard Drummond, passionately; for every word of that sorrowful parting had been like a dagger to his heart.

She came over with the old, trusting love of happier times, when that love first filled her heart, and clasping her hands on his shoulder, she dropped her face on his breast, and softly murmured:

"Dearest Willard! it is better so. I am not afraid to die now, after what I have heard to-night. And--do not be hurt, dearest love--but I have no wish to live. You will be happy with her--with Sibyl; and I--I will pray for you both, and love you both in heaven."

"Oh, Christie! oh, my wife!" he cried, clasping her in his arms, with a passionate cry; "am I only to realize the treasure I have lost when it is too late."

"Not too late, Willard; if it will help to make you a better, a holier man, it is not too late. There are many happy days for you, for Sibyl, for me--yet to come."

"Wretch, wretch, that I have been!" he groaned, in bitter grief. "Why was I doomed to bring misery and death on all who ever loved me?"

"Oh, Willard, hush! You break my heart!" said Christie, lifting her golden head off his breast. "You must not talk in that wild way. And we are losing time staying here, when every second is more precious than untold gold," she added, starting up. "Come, Willard, come."

While she spoke, Uncle Reuben, who had passed out unobserved, re-entered.

"Good-by, once more, Uncle Reuben," said Christie, "we are going."

"Not 'good-by' yet, little Christie. I will go with thee to----"

"But, Uncle Reuben, there is no necessity. I know the way."

"And did thee think, little one, I was going to let thee walk that distance in this pelting storm?" said Uncle Reuben, with a sad, grave smile. "No; it is not quite so bad as that. Thee will ride in the donkey-cart until we reach----"

"Then you have such a conveyance?" said Willard, eagerly. "Thank Heaven for that! In it you will at least be saved the fatigue of walking, Christie."

"But how can you leave Bertha, Uncle Reuben?"

"I will lock the door, and Bertha will go to bed--will thee not, Bertha?"

The maniac nodded, and still wistfully watched Christie, as though some faint impression that she was going to lose her was forcing its way through her clouded brain.

For the first time, Willard turned his eyes upon her, and gave a violent start, as he recognized the well-known spectral face.

"Who is she?" he asked, in breathless surprise.

In a few brief words, Christie gave him to understand how it had happened he had seen her on the isle.

And then, drawing her arm within his, Willard led her from the house, followed by Uncle Reuben.

Christie took her place in the humble little donkey-cart, and cowered down to avoid the pelting rain.

"Thee had better get in, too, being wounded and weak from loss of blood," said Uncle Reuben to Willard. "I will walk and drive."

"Not at all. Do you imagine I would ride while you walked? I am not so weak; I feel the strength of ten men within me, urging me on."

"That is only excitement, friend; it will not last. Thee had better get in."

But Willard peremptorily refused, and took his place on the other side of the little cart.

Seeing it was in vain to urge him, the old man allowed the animal to start. And Christie raised for a moment her bowed head, to cast one last, sorrowful glance at the little, isolated, forest cottage she was never destined to see again. They turned an abrupt angle, the night and darkness shut it from her view, and with a long, shivering sigh, she bent her head once more on her pale hands.

The night-ride through the forest--with the wind wailing eerily in long, lamentable blasts through the waving arms of the trees, with the rain driving in blinding gusts in their faces, with the pall of an almost Egyptian darkness around, above, and on every hand! That night-ride! sleeping or waking, in after days, alone or in the gayest assembly, it would rise like a haunting vision before the eyes of Willard Drummond; and the little, bowed, shadowy figure crouching silently in a corner of the wagon, would awaken in his heart feelings of undying remorse. That night-ride, through the long, lonesome woods! All the great wrong he had done that little, bowed form, from whose gentle lips no word of reproach ever fell, from whose loving eyes no accusing glance ever flashed, arose in bitter array before him, until he felt as if he could never encounter the gaze of those earnest, soul-lit orbs again--felt, as he walked beside her, as much out of his sphere as a lost soul might feel before the gates of heaven.

Then, by a natural transition, his thoughts were straying out to the future--to Sibyl. She was lost to him now, as much as though she were dead and in her grave. There was a sharp, keen pang piercing through his heart for one moment, at the thought; the next, a more generous feeling filled it, and he felt as if he could even joyfully give her up, to save her from that awful doom. Once Sibyl was saved, his determination was to depart with his little, drooping girl-wife, to some far-off Southern clime--to some sunny village in France, or Italy, where the more genial climate would restore her to health, and where the wretched past would be forever unknown. There, he would endeavor to atone, by his devoted care and attention, for all he had ever made her suffer, and forget Sibyl. But that name, as usual, woke a host of tender, sorrowful memories, and something akin to despair again replaced every other feeling in his tortured mind. Truly, in the keen suffering of that moment, he realized what Divine retribution is.

And so on--still on, through the chill, bleak night, the driving, splashing rain, the sighing, moaning wind, the dark, desolate forest-road, our weary, silent trio wound their lonely way. Not a word was spoken from the moment of starting.

Christie bowed, collapsed, shuddering, cowered in the bottom of the rude cart, her white, thin face hidden in her whiter, thinner hands. Uncle Reuben, urging on the stumbling donkey to his utmost speed, and now and then turning to see that "Little Christie" was safe, or to glance at the tall, dark figure walking opposite. And Willard Drummond, with his hat drawn down over his brows, muffled in his cloak, strode on, with bowed head, too absorbed in his own bitter thoughts to heed the flight of time.

And so the long, silent night lingered and lingered, and the dripping forest-road was passed at last; and they passed, at intervals, gloomy-looking farm-houses, whose inmates were still asleep, and whose only greeting to our weary travelers was the noisy barking of their watchdogs as they passed on.

And so the melancholy journey was continued until morning, wan, cold and gray, lifted its dead, dull face from the mantle of night, and cast a sickly glimmer of light along the wet, slippery path.

"Morning at last," said Uncle Reuben, lifting his head, with a deep sigh of relief. "This has been the longest night I have ever known."

"Yes, morning," said Willard Drummond, looking up bitterly at the dull, leaden sky; "and we so far from Westport yet; Only one day more between her and an ignominious death."

Uncle Reuben looked at him a moment, and then at the bowed form in the cart, with a look of calm reproach.

"Is thee tired, Christie?" he said, approaching her.

She lifted her head, disclosing a face so white and haggard, so worn with fatigue, sleeplessness, and grief, that even Willard started back in sorrow and alarm.

"Oh, little Christie! I knew this journey would kill thee!" said Uncle Reuben, with a groan.

"I feel a little tired, that is all," she said, forcing a wan smile. "Dear friend, do not look at me with such frightened, anxious eyes; it is nothing."

"Thee is deadly pale, Christie."

"I am cold," she said, with a shiver; "nothing more."

"And wet through," said Uncle Reuben, sorrowfully. "We must stop at the first house we meet, and get some dry clothes, and some breakfast."

"No, no; you must not stop; there is no time to lose. Pray, go on," said Christie, in alarm.

"Thee must take time," said Uncle Reuben, firmly, looking straight at Willard. "Thee will hardly live to see Westport, else. Does thee want to die a suicide, Christie?"

"He speaks truly, dearest--we must stop at the nearest farm-house," said Willard, bending over her. "My poor Christie, you do indeed look jaded to death," he added, sorrowfully.

"It is nothing, Willard. If I only reach Westport in time, I care for nothing else."

"But I do, Christie. I want you after that to hurry and get well, and come with me to Italy, to far-off, beautiful Italy, where our lives will be happy as a fairy-tale."

She lifted her large, lustrous blue eyes to his face, with along, steady gaze--the calm, far-seeing gaze of a soul lingering on the verge of eternity. How plainly those mournful eyes said "Too late! too late!" But she did not speak; she only smiled faintly, and then sank wearily back, with her head shrouded in her mantle once more.

The white hands of morning were now fast pushing aside the clouds of night. As they went on they encountered one or two laborers, with spades on their shoulders, going to their daily toil, who stared at them with lackluster eyes, as if they thought them ghosts. At the end of half an hour they reached a comfortable-looking farmhouse, and alighted at the outer gate. Willard lifted Christie out in his arms, while Uncle Reuben, with his whip, kept off the dogs that ran out, barking loudly. The noise brought the farmer himself to the door, who, noticing the drooping form of Christie, and the pale, worn face of her companions, cordially invited them to enter.

There was a bright, cheerful fire blazing on the ample hearth, and a woman bending over it, preparing breakfast. As she placed a chair for Christie, into which the young girl dropped, totally exhausted, Willard drew her aside, and placing his purse in her hands said:

"My good woman, you perceive the young lady's clothes are wet through. Will you be good enough to take her to your room, and furnish her with some dry ones?"

"Yes, sir, I'm sure I'll be glad to help her, poor young thing! I've got some will jest about fit her," said the woman, with a sympathizing look.

Willard whispered a few words in the ear of Christie, who arose and followed the woman from the room, while a girl about Christie's size took charge of the breakfast. Willard seated himself near the fire, and fell once more into a painful reverie, from which the return of Christie aroused him. He placed a chair for her beside his own, and sinking into it she dropped her weary little head on his shoulder.

Breakfast was soon smoking on the table, and the three wayfarers took seats; but much as they needed food, this errand had effectually taken away their appetites, and it was with the utmost difficulty they could prevail upon Christie even to swallow a cup of coffee.

"Can you furnish me with a horse and wagon to reach N----?" said Willard to their host, as they arose from the table.

"Yes, you can come with me," replied the man. "I'm going there myself in an hour."

"What time will you be in N----?" said Willard, anxiously.

"Little after noon."

"And if we take fresh horses immediately we can reach Westport before morning, can we not?"

"Oh, yes, very easily; travel all night, and you'll be there in the morning. S'pose you're going, with everybody else, to see the woman executed, eh? Lord bless me! what's the matter with her?" said the man, in dismay, as Christie, with a loud, indescribable cry, hid her face in her hands.

"Nothing! nothing!" said Willard, and with a face perfectly colorless. "What time--at what hour, I mean, does this execution take place?"

"Nine in the morning; has to be early on account of the mob. Nobody ever heard tell of such a mass of people as will be there. Most as many as at the Day of Judgment."

"Can you not start right away?"

"No, couldn't before an hour."

"Is there any other conveyance to be hired near?"

"No, there ain't," said the man, shortly; "everybody wants their own to take themselves there. If it's to see her hung you want, you'll be plenty time when I start."

There was no help for it; and Willard and his equally impatient companions were obliged to wait almost two hours before the farmer was ready to start. Then he and his wife mounted on the front seat, and Willard and Christie sat behind, and throwing her arms around his neck, Christie bade Uncle Reuben a last farewell.

"Good-by, little Christie!" he said, sorrowfully, "Good-by, and Heaven bless thee. I will come to see thee some day soon."

And then good Uncle Reuben entered his donkey-cart, and turned his sad face toward the lonesome forest cottage, doubly lonesome now. And Christie, shrinking closer to Willard, laid her tired head on his arm, too weary and exhausted even to weep for the friend she had left.

The farmer, who had no intention of injuring his horse by fast driving, went plodding at a jog-trot onward, in spite of Willard's furious demands to drive fast. Inwardly cursing the lazy beast, he gave up the effort at last, and strove to while away the tedious hours in conversing with Christie.

Slowly and somewhat incoherently he learned from her all the events of that night, and of her after life in the cottage, and her motives for remaining there.

"And you were willing to remain in that isolated place all your life that I might marry Sibyl Campbell, my poor Christie!" he said, with a pang of deepest remorse. "And so you loved me still, even believing me guilty?"

"Oh, Willard! did you think for one moment that I could cease to love you?" she answered, fervently. "It was because I loved you so well that I wished to see you happy with Sibyl."

"My faithful, leal-hearted, unselfish little wife," he groaned, pressing her closer to his side.

"But, Willard, there is one thing I want to know. I want to hear it from your own lips. Answer me truly, as you hope for salvation, _do you love Sibyl Campbell_?"

"Oh, Christie, I do! I do! Better than life, better than my soul's salvation? Better than my hopes of heaven do I love her!" he exclaimed, passionately.

"It is well," she said, folding her hands, with a slight shiver. "Thank Heaven for the boon of death."

"But, Christie, I will forget her; you are my wife. I will go far away, where I will never see her more!" he said, recalled to himself. "By devoting my life to you, I will try to atone for all I have made you suffer, sweet wife."

"It will not be necessary, Willard. Dearest, best Willard, can you not see I am dying?"

"Christie!" he cried out in alarm.

"I mean that my days are numbered; and, Willard, I am happy. I only wish for life long enough to save Sibyl."

Something in her tone checked the words he was going to say, and both relapsed into silence, broken at last by her saying:

"Tell me all that has happened to you and to my friends, since that night."

And then he began, and related all; his father's death; the shock he received on hearing of her murder; of his departure for Europe with the Campbells; of their return and their marriage. At this point he could feel a slight shudder run through the frame of Christie; but when he spoke of the unlooked-for interruption, and of Sibyl's being carried off to prison, and of her condemnation, she trembled so convulsively that he was forced to stop.

"Oh, poor Sibyl!" she said, passionately. "Oh, Willard! her fate was far worse than mine. What is suffering of any kind compared with the shame--the overwhelming disgrace--of that trial, exposed to the merciless eyes of the hundreds? And that I should, in any way, be the cause! Oh, Willard! it is dreadful!"

She wept, so violently that he was alarmed.

"My own dear Christie, be calm," he said, soothingly. "Consider that you are now going to save her life."

Still she wept on, until her overcharged heart was relieved; and then, worn out in mind and body, she fell fast asleep on his shoulder.

Early in the afternoon they reached N----, which they found crowded with strangers on their way to Westport.

Leaving Christie in a hotel, Willard went to seek for a fast horse to take them to town; but, to his dismay, he found that every vehicle in the village was already engaged. Nearly insane with wild impatience, he offered enormous sums for a horse; but as the stern "Impossible!" rose against all his demands, he was forced to return to the hotel in a state bordering on frenzy, and offer the farmer with whom they had come the price of a dozen horses if he would only consent to surrender the wagon to him and let him drive.

Carried away by the young man's distracted words and manner, he at last consented; and causing Christie to be wrapped up in a large, warm shawl to protect her from the night air, he lifted her into the wagon, took his seat beside her, and dashed off at a break-neck pace.

Not a word was spoken, as Willard, urging the animal to its utmost speed, almost flew over the ground. The few remaining hours of daylight passed, and night fell dark and starless. On, still on, he urged the reeking, foaming, panting beast. They were still far from Westport--scarcely more than half way--and the short night would soon be gone. Each time the tired animal would halt, panting for a moment, the vision of Sibyl, in her prison-cell waiting for death, would rise before him, until, nearly mad with impatience, he would mercilessly lash the poor brute on to greater speed.

But, just as he was beginning to hope that the rate at which they were going would, in two or three hours, bring them to Westport, the animal, completely exhausted, dropped to the ground, unable to proceed another step.

With a furious imprecation, Willard sprang out and strove to assist him to his feet, but in vain. The horse was totally unable even to rise.

For one moment Willard leaned against the wagon, while a feeling of utter despair filled his heart. The distance from Westport--the few intervening hours--the impossibility of procuring another horse--the awful peril of Sibyl, struck a chill, like that of death to his heart.

"All is lost, Christie--all is lost!" he said, in a voice so altered that she scarcely knew it. "The horse is driven to death, and in ten short hours Sibyl dies!"

"Heaven help us!" said Christie, wringing her pale hands. "Willard, we must walk."

"Walk!" he repeated, bitterly. "Before the end of the first mile your fate would be similar to his." And he touched the animal with his foot.

"Try me--try me!" said Christie, springing from her seat. "Heaven will give me strength in this hour. Oh, Willard, hasten!"

With a speed as great as it was unnatural, Christie started forward; and Willard, with a last despairing effort, accompanied her, expecting every moment to see her fictitious strength give way. But no! it was as if a new spirit had entered that slight frame--for as she never could have walked in her days of perfect health and strength, she walked now; never for one moment faltering, until the first dawn of morning grew red in the sky. But with its first blush Willard felt the faint hope that had hitherto buoyed him up die entirely away. Walk as they might, he felt it would be high noon before they could reach Westport.

"It is all useless, Christie," he said, pausing abruptly. "It is no use trying--we can never save her!"

"We will save her--we shall save her!" exclaimed Christie, with a strange kind of exultation. "Hark!" she added, "do you not hear a carriage approaching?"

Even as she spoke, a cloud of dust arose, and the thunder of wheels was heard rapidly approaching.

"Saved!" she cried, joyfully. "Praised be God!"

Willard sprang forward to intercept the driver, and saw a large country wagon nearly filled with people.

"Can you take us to Westport? Our errand is one of life and death!"

Something in Willard's tone startled the man; but after a moment's stare, he replied:

"Yes; jump in."

Lifting Christie in first, he took his seat beside her, and again dashed off.

"Hasten--hasten! for the love of Heaven!" cried Willard, passionately.

"I'll do my best," said the man. "I want to be in time for the execution, anyway."

On they fled. Mile after mile was passed; but, to the excited mind of Willard, they seemed going at a snail's pace. Did the sun ever rise so rapidly any morning before as it did on that? Eight o'clock, and still ten miles from Westport.

"Faster--faster! A thousand--two thousand--three thousand dollars, if we only reach Westport before nine," shouted Willard, almost maddened. "A human life depends on it--I have a reprieve."

"Hooray!" shouted the boy who drove. "If ever Sultan went, he'll have to go it now. Here's my stick; tie your handkerchief on it, to hoist when we get into the town, and they'll stop the execution."

Lashing his horse until the perspiration stood in great beads on his forehead, away they flew, and ten minutes before nine rushed furiously into the town.

The streets were crowded--blocked up with people--a boundless sea of human beings! And near the jail they beheld the scaffold, and a sight which seemed to paralyze the very life in their hearts. For there, with the sheriff and a group of her immediate friends, stood Sibyl Campbell, whiter than the dead, robed for death, cold, still, and rigid.

A deep, awe-struck silence had fallen over the vast crowd--a silence more terrible than the wildest shouts could have been.

Raising the white handkerchief, the boy waved it in the air, shouting, wildly: "A reprieve--a reprieve!" and drove furiously right through the startled throng, heedless of those he trampled down in his way.

The multitude took up the cry, and "A reprieve! a reprieve! a reprieve!" rang out, gathering force as it went, until, from a low, hoarse shout, it rose to a wild, triumphal song that rang to the very heavens.

And on, on, through the waving sea of human beings, they drove, until they reached the scaffold; and then rising to her feet, the thunder-struck spectators beheld the pale, beautiful face of the long-lost Christie.