Then the girl, seeing the others desired to talk, begged them to leave her alone with the dead while they went outside, for that her heart was full of tears, and she would pray mercy on the poor sinner.
They went sombrely, and stood without at a little distance in the snow.
“It would scarce be decent to congratulate you,” said Blythewood, gravely.
“Indeed, sir, I am not sure it would, or that it is at all a subject for congratulation. At any rate compliments on such can hardly be exchanged by us.”
“You are bitter, and you have very full cause. I spoke once before without book; and now, it seems, Angel and Dunlone have an understandin’. Give me your hand, man; and, frankly, I’m sorry. Why, I could ha’ wished it was you, by my soul, and what was my rudeness then but a left-handed compliment?”
“My lady Viscountess will grace any position she condescends to!” cried Tuke enthusiastically; and the two men shook hands then and there.
“And now,” said Blythewood, “we have been experimenting with a sledge of our own manufacture; and I make no doubt we can transport the whole party to ‘Chatters’ before the day is out.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
Tuke, a weary ghost of himself, that bodily hurt and mental emotion still would not spare, was returned from inspecting Sir David’s travelling contrivance. As he pushed open the door of the stable, he saw that that drove the blood upon his heart, and paralyzed him, voice and limbs, so that he stood like a man of stone. Betty still knelt, her face buried in her hands, beside the dead soldier; but crawled silently to within touch of her—by what desperate disciplining of suffering who might tell—was the wounded brute that, but a few minutes earlier, was extended, helpless apparently and near to dying, against the further wall. Now, as Brander saw the door swung back, he raised himself on one hand, a short knife poised in the other, and in his eyes was an expression of such devilish triumph as turned the soul of the wretched onlooker sick. The blade whipped aloft—the arm of the dead man sprung up and struck the murderer a backhanded blow full in the face. His knife rattled on the boards—he gave a screech of terror, and rolled grovelling and as Tuke, the horrible spell broken, bounded to his love and caught her, fluttering, to his arms, Sir David and the others rushed into the stable with pale faces, and the how, when, and what, of startled men.
Now, when all was explained, and the half-convulsed ruffian tied up with little regard to his comfort, it was vain to try and convince Betty that the ill-secured ligature had snapped fortuitously, releasing the hard arm like a spring, and, marvellously enough, at the opportune moment, and that her safety was due to an accident. “But,” said she, “the dead struck for his own, and because he had dedicated that to good uses. And now I will take the poor man’s trust, and try to acquit me of it so that he shall have peace in his grave. For I owe him that at least for my life.”