The shock of this conviction, striking into the very current of high hope, was so great that he cried out like one in corporal agony, and in his misery bowed himself down to the ground.
Of all the degrees and qualities of punishment that Fitzpiers had undergone since his sins against Grace first began, not any even approximated in intensity to this.
"Oh, my own--my darling! Oh, cruel Heaven--it is too much, this!" he cried, writhing and rocking himself over the sorry accessaries of her he deplored.
The voice of his distress was sufficiently loud to be audible to any one who might have been there to hear it; and one there was.

Right and left of the narrow pass between the oaks were dense bushes; and now from behind these a female figure glided, whose appearance even in the gloom was, though graceful in outline, noticeably strange.
She was in white up to the waist, and figured above.

She was, in short, Grace, his wife, lacking the portion of her dress which the gin retained.
"Don't be grieved about me--don't, dear Edgar!" she exclaimed, rushing up and bending over him.

"I am not hurt a bit! I was coming on to find you after I had released myself, but I heard footsteps; and I hid away, because I was without some of my clothing, and I did not know who the person might be." Fitzpiers had sprung to his feet, and his next act was no less unpremeditated by him than it was irresistible by her, and would have been so by any woman not of Amazonian strength.

He clasped his arms completely round, pressed her to his breast, and kissed her passionately.
"You are not dead!--you are not hurt! Thank God--thank God!" he said, almost sobbing in his delight and relief from the horror of his apprehension.