“Yes, yes, I am quite ready to acknowledge that,” answered Henderson somewhat impatiently.
“For a word of mine might have hanged ye, may hang ye yet,” continued the groom.
“What do you mean?” asked Henderson, turning pale to the very lips.
“This,” said Reid, emphatically, “that yer hand, and yer hand alone, spilt that poor lass’ blood. I’ve held my tongue, but I saw ye shoot her, and then fling her down the bank.”
“It’s a lie!” faltered Henderson, with his white lips.
“It’s no lie, but God’s truth. I watched ye that night, and followed ye to the ridge above Fern Dene, and heard every word ye spoke, and what the lass said to ye.”
“I—I was not there.”
“Yes, ye were there sure enough, master,” answered Reid with a scornful laugh. “Poor Elsie carried her father’s pistol wi’ her to make yer promise to keep yer word, and make her yer lawful wife. She threatened ye, and ye did promise, and then snatched the pistol frae the poor lass’s hand. And when she said she wad tell her father and Miss Churchill, yer shot her. It’s no good denying it, for I can prove each word I say, and hang ye as easy as hold up my hand.”
Henderson’s tall form absolutely tottered, and he leaned back against the yard pump for support.
“You—can prove nothing,” he faltered.