“Stop! stop!” gasped Miss Demster, shaking as if in a violent fit of ague. “You saw it as well as I. He did not slip; he was flung down. Oh, mercy! he was murdered! I saw the wretch who did the deed.”
“I saw some one too,” cried Deborah.
“I shall never forget the murderer’s face—the handsomest face that ever I saw in my life, but fierce as a demon’s. I could swear to it in a court of justice,” said Betsy.
“Oh, don’t talk of swearing or of courts of justice,” exclaimed the younger sister nervously; “it would be too dreadful to think of.”
“Of course there will be an inquest,” said Miss Demster. “We shall be called as witnesses.”
“I would not go for the world!” cried Deborah. “Besides, if we took an oath to tell all the truth, we should have to speak of the murder.”
Betsy’s thin lips turned white as she faltered out, “We might get a man hanged!”
“Oh, horrible! horrible!” exclaimed poor Deborah; “I would almost rather be hanged myself.”
“We had better hurry away then, and leave some one else to find the body—some one who would not be mixed up in a murder case, as we should be certain to be.” Seizing her sister by the arm, Miss Demster almost dragged her away from the spot.
But the ladies had not gone far before they both stopped as by a common impulse. “Are we doing right?” came almost simultaneously from the lips of both.