“You—ah, ’twas you?” she questioned in hoarse whisper. “I ... do not know you.... Your name, sir?”
“I am called John Dering, madam.”
“Dering,” she repeated in the same tense voice—“John Dering—I shall not forget! And ’twas you killed him—’twas you murdered my Charles—you—you?”
And now she broke out into a wild farrago of words, bitter reproaches and passionate threats, while Sir John stood immobile, head bowed, laced handkerchief to lip, mute beneath the lash of her tongue. Softly, stealthily, one by one, the others crept from the room until the twain were alone, unseen, unheard, save by one beyond the open casement who stood so patiently in the gathering dusk, watching Sir John’s drooping figure with such keen anxiety.
“... God curse you!” she panted hoarsely. “God’s curse on you for the murderer you are! Aye, but you shall suffer for it, I swear! You shall rue this night’s work to the end of your life——” The passionate voice broke upon a gasping sob, and then Sir John spoke, his head still bowed:
“True, madam, I shall ... suffer and grieve for this ... to the end o’ my days for ... Charles was ... my friend——”
“And you are his murderer, John Dering—so am I your enemy!” she cried. “Your sin may be soon forgot—the world may forgive you—even God may, but I—never will! My vengeance shall follow you, to end only with your last breath——”
Sir John coughed suddenly, the handkerchief at his mouth became all at once horribly crimson, and, sinking to his knees, he swayed over sideways; lying thus, it chanced that the long, embroidered waistcoat he had so vainly sought to button, fell open, discovering the great and awful stains below.
For a moment the girl stood rigid, staring down at the serene but death-pale face at her feet; and then the door swung violently open to admit a very tall man who ran to kneel and lift that slender form, to chafe the nerveless hands and drop hot tears upon the pallid cheek.
“John, John.... O John.... O lad—is this the end——”