The Colonel was not in his accustomed place on the honeysuckled end of the porch, nor was Zack about, so she dismounted alone and tied the lathery beast. Perhaps they were at Bradford's cottage, comforting little Mesmie. Perhaps they were—but she tried not to think of that! Never had the world seemed so deserted. Nothing was astir. The edge of a lace curtain, drawn outward by the passing of someone through one of the library French windows, hung over the sill, deadly white and deadly still. The leaves were still, the air was still. Above her head, where recently she had watched two piping orioles flutter about their weaving, hung now the silent, pendant nest. No pipe, no bird, no motion. It seemed as though here were the stage of Perrault's fairytale; only 'twas a Prince within who had pricked his destiny with a leaden bullet, and a Princess rode to wake him.
Alertly, but with a heavy dread at her heart, she crossed the porch and tiptoed to the open window. Dale was there, bent over the mahogany table, reading; as far from the world as he was from his mad act; as far from them both as he was from her. She went quietly in to him.
"Dale!"
He did not stir.
"Dale!" she again cried in a low voice, shaking him by the shoulder. He looked slowly up.
"Dale, what does this mean?" she hurriedly began. "Why have you killed that man?"
He remembered the Colonel's unpleasant interview, and burned with a deep rage, growling:
"Leave me alone. I've got to read."
"Are you asleep?" she incredulously exclaimed. "Do you realize you've killed Tusk Potter, and any moment they may be after you?"
As he again looked up there was a storm of irritation in his face.