There remained for him only to say farewell.  He took her little white hand; it was as cold as death.

“Farewell, my love,” he said—­“farewell!”

He kissed her face with slow, sweet reverence, as he would have kissed the face of a dead woman whom he loved; and then he was gone.

Like one in a dream, she heard the wheel of a carriage rolling away.  She stretched out her hands with a faint cry.

“Norman—­my husband—­my love!” she called; but from the deep silence of the night there came no response.  He was gone.

Madaline passed the night in watching the silent skies.  Mrs. Burton, after providing all that was needful, had retired quickly to rest.  She did not think it “good manners” to intrude upon her ladyship.

All night Madaline watched the stars, and during the course of that night the best part of her died—­youth, love, hope, happiness.  Strange thoughts came to her—­thoughts that she could hardly control.  Why was she so cruelly punished?  What had she done?  She had read of wicked lives that had met with terrible endings.  She had read of sinful men and wicked women whose crimes, even in this world, had been most bitterly punished.  She had read of curses following sin.  But what had she done?  No woman’s lot surely had ever been so bitter.  She could not understand it, while the woman who had loved her husband, who had practiced fraud and deceit, and lied, went unpunished.

Yet her case was hardly that, for Norman did not love her.  Daughter of a felon as she—­Madaline—­was—­poor, lowly, obscure—­he had given her his heart, although he could never make her the mistress of his home.  There was some compensation for human suffering, some equality in the human lot, after all.  She would be resigned.  There were lots in life far worse than hers.  What if she had learned to love Norman, and he had never cared for her?  What if she had learned to love him, and had found him less noble than he was?  What if, in the bitterness of his disappointment and passion, he had vented his anger upon her?  After all, she could not but admire his sense of honor, his respect for his name, his devotion to his race; she could not find fault with his conduct, although it had cost her so dear.

“I think,” she admitted to herself, “that in his place I should have done the same thing.  If my parent’s crime has brought sorrow and disgrace to me, who have no name, no fame, no glory of race to keep up, what must it have brought to him?  In his place I should have done as he has done.”

Then, after a time, she clasped her hands.

“I will submit,” she said.  “I will leave my fate to Providence.”

When morning dawned she went to her room; she did not wish the household to know that she had sat up and watched the night through.

Once out of the house, Lord Arleigh seemed to realize for the first time what had happened; with a gesture of despair he threw himself back in the carriage.  The footman came to him.