Miette was telling him that she was going away all alone, and before their bridal day; that she was leaving him ere she had become his wife.

She was telling him, too, that it was he who had willed that it should be so, that he should have loved her as other lovers love their sweethearts.

In the hour of her agony, amidst that stern conflict between death and her vigorous nature, she bewailed her fate in going like that to the grave.

Silvere, as he bent over her, understood how bitter was the pang.

He recalled their caresses, how she had hung round his neck, and had yearned for his love, but he had not understood, and now she was departing from him for evermore.