The thought restored him somewhat, and struggling for self-command, he looked around him. A small, shining object lying on the moss caught his eyes. It was the revolver which had dropped from Bradstone’s nerveless hand.
Faradeane took it up and looked at it absently. He thought a moment. Then he took out his penknife and scratched some initials on the glittering surface of the weapon.
He glanced down at his clothes as he did so, and a shudder ran through him. Two or three red spots stared up at him from his white wristband; there were similar spots on his coat and waistcoat.
He dropped on the trunk of the fallen tree, and with clasped hands and set face—waited!
And the sun streamed through the trees brightly, the birds flitted over the accursed spot with joyous trills, and, but for the music of their song, the echo of the villagers’ voices, and the ringing of the wedding bells, all was silent.
Olivia started awake with a low cry of fear, as Bessie’s gentle hand and loving voice aroused her.
“It’s time, miss,” she said, regretfully. “I’m sorry; I waited till the last moment——”
“I’m ready,” said Olivia, rising pale and wearily. “Have I been asleep long, Bessie?”
She tried to smile, but her strength of will, great as it was, failed her, and the smile was a look of agony.