“No, no!” groaned Bartley Bradstone. “She—she is not dead. For God’s sake, don’t say that!”
“You have killed her!” repeated Faradeane, grimly. “Why did you do it? What was she to you——”
He stopped, for Bartley Bradstone had crawled to his knees.
“Faradeane, have mercy on me, have pity,” he whined, almost speechless with terror. “I—I didn’t mean to—to—kill her, only to stun her—to—to—I’ll tell you all, so help me Heaven, if you’ll let me go——”
Faradeane, with Bella’s head upon his knee, held up one hand.
“They will hang you,” he said, grimly. “You are mad! What have I to do with saving you? You are beyond help, and you must know it.”
Bartley Bradstone uttered a whine.
“Oh, my Heaven! What shall I do? Faradeane! Faradeane! save me!”
Faradeane scarcely heeded him; his brain was whirling as he loosened the woman’s collar, and tried to pour some brandy past her paling lips.
“Save me, save me, Faradeane!” cried Bartley Bradstone, in a kind of suppressed shriek. “I can explain everything. I’ll do anything! I’ll—I’ll—oh, God! if you won’t do it for me, do it for her! Remember whom I married this morning!”