“God of mercy, sir!” he exclaimed. “What’s that?”
He had hardly spoken when Gilead, with a white face, was up and on board. He ran round, and was out of sight in an instant. Immediately a faint cry came to the ears of the waiting man. He hallooed in answer, but shakily, and sat sweating in his place. Suddenly his fare reappeared, but approaching agitated from the further end.
“He’s shot himself through the head,” said Gilead hoarsely. “The revolver’s in his hand. You must fasten on and come up. Good God—the girl! What’s become of her? I’ve been right through the boat.”
The man heaved himself, like a rheumatic creature, to his feet. His cheeks were patched with yellow; he fancied the job the least in the world. But he came, and saw; and was very sick by and by.
“Dead!” he whispered. “A man can’t live without a head.”
“But what’s become of her?”
“She must be hiding—she can’t have got away; or did he—no, there was only one shot.”
They hunted high and low; they ransacked every corner.
“I saw her standing there—at the door—but a moment ago,” said Gilead, gulping.
The boat lay moored in its placid pool; everything around slept quiet and unruffled; not a ripple, not a swaying in the reeds was there to account for the instant disappearance. The punt swung by its painter; the skiff floated as it had been run in, its nose wedged under the counter. Suddenly the man gripped Gilead’s sleeve, and pointed.