But he suddenly stretched out his hand to repulse her, gasping, as it were, breathlessly, “Not yet—­not yet!” and again his whole frame shook with an inward storm.  What could be the reason of his strange behavior?  Oh, some misfortune had happened to him—­that was evident!  Would it were only of a nature that her own good news might be able to cure.  And it might be so.  Full of this thought, she was again pressing toward him, when a violent flurry of rain and wind whistled before her and drove into her face, concealing him from her view.  When the sudden gust as suddenly passed, she saw that he remained in the same spot, his breast heaving, his whole form shaking.  She could bear it no longer.  She started forward and put her arms around his neck, and dropped her head upon his bosom, and whispered in suppressed tones: 

“Dearest Thurston, what is the matter?  Tell me, for I love you more than life!”

The man clasped his left arm fiercely around her waist, lifted his right hand, and, hissing sharply through his clenched teeth: 

“You have drawn on your own doom—­die, wretched girl!” plunged a dagger in her bosom, and pushed her from him.

One sudden, piercing shriek, and she dropped at his feet, grasping at the ground, and writhing in agony.  Her soul seemed striving to recover the shock, and recollect its faculties.  She half arose upon her elbow, supported her head upon her hand, and with her other hand drew the steel out from her bosom, and laid it down.  The blood followed, and with the life-stream her strength flowed away.  The hand that supported her head suddenly dropped, and she fell back.  The man had been standing over her, speechless, motionless, breathless, like some wretched somnambulist, suddenly awakened in the commission of a crime, and gazing in horror, amazement, and unbelief upon the work of his sleep.

Suddenly he dropped upon his knees by her side, put his arm under her head and shoulders and raised her up; but her chin fell forward upon her bosom, and her eyes fixed and glazed.  He laid her down gently, groaning in a tone of unspeakable anguish: 

“Miss Mayfield!  My God! what have I done?” And with an awful cry, between a shriek and a groan, the wretched man cast himself upon the ground by the side of the fallen body.

The storm was beating wildly upon the assassin and his victim; but the one felt it no more than the other.  At length the sound of footsteps was heard approaching fast and near.  In the very anguish of remorse the instinct of self-preservation seized the wretched man, and he started up and fled as from the face of the avenger of blood.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE STRUGGLE ENDED.

In the meantime Jacquelina had reached home sooner than she had expected.  It was just dark, and the rain was beginning to fall as she sprang from the carriage and darted into the house.