"Do as you're told," she cried, "or I shall ask this man to throw you over the cliff." She stamped her foot.
"And this man," said Farallone, "will do as he's told."
There was nothing for it. We left them alone in the meadow and descended the cliff to the river. And there we stood for what seemed the ages of ages, listening and trembling.
A faint, far-off detonation, followed swiftly by louder and fainter echoes, broke suddenly upon the rushing noises of the river. We commenced feverishly to scramble back up the cliff. Half-way to the top we heard another shot, a second later a third, and after a longer interval, as if to put a quietus upon some final show of life—a fourth.
A nebulous drift of smoke hung above the meadow.
Farallone lay upon his face at the bride's feet. The groom sprang to her side and threw a trembling arm about her.
"Come away," he cried, "come away."
But the bride freed herself gently from his encircling arm, and her eyes still bent upon Farallone——
"Not till I have buried my dead," she said.