But she had no time for reflection. She saw the foam flecked black horse, savage and intractable still in spite of the punishing ride, race to the very entrance of the tent; saw his rider drag him, screaming and fighting, to a standstill. Then as Carew leaped to the ground, an overmastering panic seized her and she shrank back into the room wide eyed and trembling.
He came through the doorway slowly, reeling slightly as he walked, and took her into his arms without a word. His face was grey with dust and fatigue and there was a strangeness in his manner that forced utterance from her.
“Geradine—” The fearful whisper was barely audible, but he heard it and his arms tightened round her with a quick convulsive movement.
“Dead,” he said tensely.
She did not flinch from him but her face went ghastly and a terrible shudder passed through her.
“Not you, oh, Gervas, not you?” she breathed, imploringly.
His tired eyes looked into hers with infinite tenderness, infinite understanding.
“No, thank God, it was not I,” he said quietly. “Malec killed him. They killed each other. Tanner found them when he went back to the house early the next morning. The other servants had cleared out—the place was empty. I can’t tell you any more, dear. It’s too—beastly.”
She was leaning weakly against him, her face hidden in his robes, shivering from head to foot. And as he broke off abruptly, she shuddered closer to him, clutching at his burnous with shaking fingers.
“Was it my fault—was it our fault?” she gasped, with a ring of horror in her voice.