“I will go to rest at once,” said Io. Nature was demanding sleep; after the last two terrible nights the lady could scarcely keep her eyes open.
“Shall we first pray together?” suggested Oscar.
Blessed rift in the dark, dark cloud! Oscar could at last kneel down by the side of his wife and pray aloud. And what a prayer was his! It seemed to be poured out at the feet of a Saviour in visible presence――a pleading, imploring prayer for mercy on the guiltiest of the guilty. But it was a prayer uttered in faith and hope――faith that there is indeed a Fountain to wash away sin; hope that its stain had already been removed from a penitent’s soul. The sinner was prostrate indeed, but, like Saul of Tarsus, in deep humility, not in despair. Io drank in each word of the prayer. It refreshed her, it strengthened her, while it made her tears flow fast. When the supplication was ended, the “Amen” came from her lips with a sob.
Then the husband and wife arose from their knees. Oscar knew that the mail for Calcutta would start on the morrow, and Io had promised to give her answer on the day which had now passed into night.
“What would you have me do now, my beloved?” Oscar inquired, taking the hand of his wife.
Io knew what he meant. “Whatever you think right,” was the faltered reply.
The husband pressed a long, tender kiss on Io’s cold brow. Not another word passed between them. Io went to her own room, and Coldstream retired to his study.
Seated in that study, Oscar wrote a brief but full account of his crime in an official letter addressed to Government House. He omitted nothing, except the cause of the hatred which he owned that he had felt towards his unfortunate victim; he made not the slightest reference to his wife. Oscar wrote with a strange calmness which was to himself a matter of surprise. He then lighted a taper and sealed up his document, placed it in his desk, which he locked, read awhile in his Bible, and then retired to rest.
Oscar arose very early, before his wife was awake. He went to his study, and, after long fervent prayer, took out the large sealed letter and carried it himself to the post. The postmaster was making up the bag for the Calcutta mail, whistling a light air as he did so. Oscar gave in the letter with a hand that did not tremble, and turned away with the thought, “I _have_ plucked out the right eye.” (‡ See Illustration.)