Who knows the mysteries of the human soul—who knows the workings of the human brain? The God who is just alone. In this man's mind, which was so near a simple beast's in all its movings, some remote, unborn consciousness was surely reached and vaguely set astir by the clear words thus spoken.

"Clo, Clo!" he cried, "Clo, Clo!" in terror, clutching her the closer, "what dost thou mean? In all my nine and sixty years—" and rolled his head in agony.

In all his nine and sixty years he had shown justice to no man, mercy to no woman, since he had thought of none but Jeoffry Wildairs; and this truth somehow dimly reached his long-dulled brain and wakened there.

"Down on thy knees, Clo!" he gasped—"down on thy knees!"

It was so horrible, the look struggling in his dying face, that she went down upon her knees that moment, and so knelt, folding his shaking hands within her own against her breast.

"Thou who didst make him as he was born into Thy world," she said, "deal with that to which Thou didst give life—and death. Show him in this hour, which Thou mad'st also, that Thou art not Man who would have vengeance, but that justice which is God."

"Then—then," he gasped—"then will He damn me!"

"He will weigh thee," she said; "and that which His own hand created will He separate from that which was thine own wilful wrong—and this, sure, He will teach thee how to expiate."

"Clo," he cried again—"thy mother—she was but a girl, and died alone—I did no justice to her!—Daphne! Daphne!" And he shook beneath the bed-clothes, shuddering to his feet, his face growing more grey and pinched.

"She loved thee once," Clorinda said. "She was a gentle soul, and would not forget. She will show thee mercy."

"Birth she went through," he muttered, "and death—alone. Birth and death! Daphne, my girl—" And his voice trailed off to nothingness, and he lay staring at space, and panting.

The duchess sat by him and held his hand. She moved not, though at last he seemed to fall asleep. Two hours later he began to stir. He turned his head slowly upon his pillows until his gaze rested upon her, as she sat fronting him. 'Twas as though he had awakened to look at her.

"Clo!" he cried, and though his voice was but a whisper, there was both wonder and wild question in it—"Clo!"

But she moved not, her great eyes meeting his with steady gaze; and even as they so looked at each other his body stretched itself, his lids fell—and he was a dead man.

Chapter XXIV - The Doves Sate Upon the Window-Ledge and Lowly Cooed and Cooed

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