a dream of foreboding. Be that as it may, it steadied even while it appalled me. But this sudden apparition of Sinfire at my elbow unmanned me completely. I had not been thinking of her directly at all; she had formed in my mind no more than a feature of the general circumstances; I was not prepared to consider her separate relation to the event; she was ten miles away (as I supposed), and hours would pass before any hint of what had occurred would reach her. Yet here she was mysteriously on the spot, almost before the corpse of the man she had loved and hated had stiffened into its final rigidity.
I stared at her in silence, striving to prepare myself for I knew not what other shock. Had she witnessed the murder? Had she any purpose to fulfil? . . . A score of wild conjectures flew through my head. I loved her; she was the great and only passion of my life; she had transfigured me,—almost created me; whatever I might do or be hereafter would be due to her: but there are a time and a mood for all things, and I was in no mood, standing where I did, to think of anything tender and sacred. My nerves and faculties were tuned to something different; and I could not divest myself of the idea that she was about to connect herself in some way with the omnipresent horror.
She was dressed in her scarlet riding-habit, which she had taken with her to the lake, intending, as she said, to ride back the next day. In the darkness of the night, it would have been indistinguishable from any other color; but with the rays of the lamp-light falling upon it, its vivid hue gleamed out with a striking intensity. Her derringer hung in a sling from her belt, on the right side. Her lips were compressed, her eyes brilliant with concentrated light. Her glance seemed to question or challenge me; but after a few silent moments she turned her face slowly towards the couch, which she approached lingeringly. Within a few feet of it she paused, and gazed down upon the dead.
"How came this?" she asked, at length, not altering her attitude.
"He was murdered in the wood. We brought him here."
"Murdered in the wood! Murdered!" she repeated, in a murmur. "I thought you were ill," she added, glancing up; and then, before I could reply, "Who did it?" she inquired.
"The murderer alone knows," said I.
"It seems cruel: he loved to be alive; and he didn't expect it," was her next remark. She fetched a long sigh. "I would have spared his life."
"Would you have him alive again?" I demanded.
"How can I tell?" she returned. "It is done!"
Those words, "it is done!" had a sadness and solemnity in them
