"John, John—how can you say such things—you don't believe in murder——"
"No!" he breathed fiercely. "I don't now. I used to until I had a revelation——"
He stopped short as if strangled.
"Revelation—what do you mean?" Betty whispered, watching his every movement, with growing terror.
He looked at her with eyes glittering.
"I didn't want to tell you this," he began slowly. "I meant to keep the black thing hidden in my own soul. But you'll understand better if I speak. I killed Ned Vaughan with my own hands——"
"You're mad——" Betty shivered.
"I wish I were—no—I was never sane before that flash of red from hell showed me the truth—showed me what I was doing. We fought in the darkness of a night attack, hand to hand, like two maddened beasts. He ran me through with his sword and I sent the last ball left in my revolver crashing through his breast. In the glare of that shot I saw his face—the face of my brother! I caught him in my arms as he fell and held him while the life blood ebbed away through the hole I had torn near his heart. And then I saw what I'd been doing, saw it all as it is—war—brother murdering his brother—the shout and the tumult, the drums and bugles, the daring and heroism of it all, just that and nothing more—brother cutting his brother's throat——"
His head sank into his hands in a sob that strangled speech.
Betty slipped her arm tenderly around his shoulder and stroked the heavy black hair.