They neared the edge of the plantation. There was only a short climb now, and a gray stone wall. Rochester passed his arm through his companion’s. Her breath was coming in little sobs.
“We shall be there in a moment, Pauline,” he said. “It is only a fancy of mine. Perhaps he is not here after all, but at any rate we shall know.”
She said nothing. She seemed to be bracing herself for that last effort. Now they could see the bare rocky outline of the summit of the hill. A few steps more, and they would pass through the gate. And then the sound came, the sound which somehow they had dreaded. Sharp and crisp through the twilight air came the report of a revolver. They even fancied that they heard a little moan come travelling down the hillside.
Rochester stopped short.
“We are too late,” he said. “Pauline, you had better stay here. I will go on and find him.”
She shook her head.
“I am coming,” she said. “It is my fault!—it is my fault!”
He held out his hand.
“Pauline,” he said, “it may not be a fit sight for you. Sit here. If you can do any good, I will call to you.”