"I--I--I am no--murderer," faltered Herbert, down whose pallid face the perspiration rolled in great drops. "I did not kill her."
Carwell shook him fiercely. "Say your wife, you dog, you!"
"I--did--not--kill--my--wife!"
"I wonder why I don't slay you as you stand," cried the farmer, his huge frame towering over the shrinking form of the culprit; "you have ruined my daughter's life with your lies. I would----" He stopped, and burst into a harsh, contemptuous laugh. "Cur that you are, you are not worth an honest man soiling his hands. Out of my sight with you!" He dashed the man from him violently.
On the floor Herbert lay--a pitiable object, while the farmer stood over him, fighting down a fierce desire to kick him. Jack and Tera looked on in silence. Slowly Herbert gathered himself together, and, staggering to his feet, groped blindly to the far end of the room. He knew that he was detected, and he could neither deny nor excuse his conduct, much less show a fighting front to the man who had a right to call him to account for it. All he wished to do was to get away, out of the house, away from the scene of his disgrace, lest worse should befall. Blindly he felt for his cap, and made to leave.
"Stop!" thundered Carwell. "This girl, Zara, was your wife?"
"Yes," dropped from Herbert's lips almost in a whisper.
"Did you kill her so that you could marry Rachel?"
"No, I swear I did not. On my honour----"
"On your what, you skunk?" cried Jack, "Why, you low lubber, you don't know what the word means!"