"He came to see you, did he? The traitor! Not a sound! Wait till he turns! wait till he turns! I want him to see me. When he turns, I shall shoot him."
At last she understood. The madman meant to kill Dale.
He would kill him, before Dale could defend himself. She must warn him—at any cost, she must warn him. If it cost her——
"Not a sound," hissed Roberts. "A sound and you are dead; your head blown to bits—blown to bits!" And again he laughed, but noiselessly.
It was her life against his. Ah, she must warn him—she must cry out! But the cold barrel pressed against her temple, and the madman's voice hissed in her ear:
"Blown to bits—blown to bits!"
She couldn't die, she couldn't die! not like that—not blown to bits! Perhaps he would miss; Dale might escape. She couldn't die!
He advanced a little nearer, keeping on the grass-edge and pushing her before him, still whispering to her death and its horrors, if she made a sound. It was too horrible; she could not bear it. Ah! he was measuring the distance. She must cry out! She opened her lips. Quick as thought, he pressed the barrel to her head. She could not, could not do it; and, with a groan, she sank, a senseless heap, on the ground at his feet.
Suddenly a shot rang out, and a woman's cry. Dale started from his reverie, to see a woman a step or two from him; a woman, tottering, swaying, falling forward on her face, as he rushed to support her in his arms.
There was a shout of men's voices, and, following on it, another report, and James Roberts fell beside Janet Delane, his head, as he had said, blown to bits; and two panting men, who had run all the way from Denborough, were raising Janet and looking if she were dead, and then laying her down again and turning to where Nellie Fane lay in lifeless quiet in Dale's arms.