He made no attempt to raise her; he stood like a man lost.
The crimson stain crept onward until it touched his feet.
"Oh, Heaven!" he cried again; "I did not mean to kill her."
Then his whole soul seemed to shrink and wither away with fear. He had killed her; it was the pallor of death blanching the lovely face; and—oh, horror!—the crimson stain had reached the golden hair.
She was dead; he had slain her in his mad frenzy. He looked at the cruel knife buried in the white flesh—he dare not touch it. He looked at the face so rapidly growing cold in death—he dare not touch it. He would have given his life to have touched those cold, dead lips, but he dare not, because he had murdered her. He clinched his strong hands in an agony that knew no words.
"Oh, Heaven!" he cried again; "I have slain her!"
He gave one hurried glance around on a scene he was never to forget—the luxurious boudoir, its hangings, its lights and flowers; the bridal costume, all torn into shreds: the crimson stain, spreading so slowly, so horribly; the beautiful dead face upraised to the light; the white breast, with its terrible wound; the quiet figure, the golden hair—and, with a moan of unutterable remorse, he turned away.
It just occurred to him that his only safety lay in flight. The door was opened that led to the spiral staircase; the next moment he was creeping along under the shadow of the wall, and Lady Doris Studleigh lay dead and alone!