“Once more, yes!  Why do you inquire?”

“Because all these foreign letters directed to Marian are postmarked Glasgow, and dated March or April, 182-.”

With a low, stifled cry, and a sudden spring, he snatched the packet from her hand, tore open the first letter that presented itself, and ran his strained, bloodshot eyes down the lines.  Half-suppressed, deep groans like those wrung by torture from a strong man’s heart, burst from his pale lips, and great drops of sweat gathered on his agonized forehead.  Then he crushed the letters together in his hand and held them tightly, unconsciously, while his starting eyes were fixed on vacancy and his frozen lips muttered: 

“In a fit of frantic passion, anger, jealousy—­even he might have been maddened to the pitch of doing such a thing!  But as an act of base policy, as an act of forethought, oh! never, never, never!”

“Paul!  Paul! speak to me, Paul.  Tell me what you think.  I have had foreshadowings long.  I can bear silence and uncertainty no longer.  What find you in those letters?  Oh, speak, or my heart will burst, Paul.”

He gave no heed to her or her words, but remained like one impaled; still, fixed, yet writhing, his features, his whole form and expression discolored, distorted with inward agony.

“Paul!  Paul!” cried Miriam, starting up, standing before him, gazing on him.  “Paul! speak to me.  Your looks kill me.  Speak, Paul! even though you can tell me little new.  I know it all, Paul; or nearly all.  Weeks ago I received the shock! it overwhelmed me for the time; but I survived it!  But you, Paul—­you!  Oh! how you look!  Speak to your sister, Paul!  Speak to your promised wife.”

But he gave no heed to her.  She was not strong or assured—­she felt herself tottering on the very verge of death or madness.  But she could not bear to see him looking so.  Once more she essayed to engage his attention.

“Give me those letters, Paul—­I can perhaps make out the meaning.”

As he did not reply, she gently sought to take them from his hand.  But at her touch he suddenly started up and threw the packet into the fire.  With a quick spring, Miriam darted forward, thrust her hand into the fire and rescued the packet, scorched and burning, but not destroyed.

She began to put it out, regardless of the pain to her hands.  He looked as if he were tempted to snatch it from her, but she exclaimed: 

“No, Paul! no!  You will not use force to deprive me of this that I must guard as a sacred trust.”

Still Paul hesitated, and eyed the packet with a gloomy glance.

“Remember honor, Paul, even in this trying moment,” said Miriam; “let honor be saved, if all else be lost.”

“What do you mean to do with that parcel?” he asked in a hollow voice.

“Keep them securely for the present.”

“And afterward?”

“I know not.”

“Miriam, you evade my questions.  Will you promise me one thing?”