“Don’t you call me good woman!” said Mrs. Scott, provoked. “I’m no more a good woman than yourself! I tell you, friends and neighbors, you’ll do wrong if you let this man go. We may all be murdered in our beds!”
She was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Trafton, who had not been apprised of the tragedy from considerations for her feelings, but hearing the stir and excitement, had followed her neighbors to the spot and just ascertain what had happened.
“Where is my husband?” she cried.
All made way for her, feeling that hers was the foremost place, and she stood with startled gaze before her dead husband. Ill as he had provided for her and unworthy of her affections as he had proved, at that moment she forgot all but that the husband of her youth lay before her, bereft of life, and she kneeled, sobbing, at his side.
The hermit took off his hat and stood reverently by her side.
“Oh, John!” she sobbed, “I never thought it would come to this! Who could have had the heart to kill you?”
“That’s the man! He murdered him!” said Mrs. Scott harshly, pointing to the hermit.
The widow lifted her eyes to the man of whom she had heard so much from Robert with a glance of incredulity.
He was too proud to defend himself from the coarse accusation and returned her look with a glance of sympathy and compassion.
“I never can believe that!” said the widow in utter incredulity. “He has been kind to my boy. He never would lift his hand against my husband!”