"Billy," she whispered.
And at that moment a sudden thunderous and heavily-resonant boom rent the stillness of the night.
John knew it in an instant as the detonation of a heavy gun. The door of the room creaked under the heavy vibration, the casements of the window rattled, and a red smear of light blazed against the low clouds and vanished.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had turned her face to the window. For an instant John saw it, tense and ecstatic in the glare of light—then darkness fell again.
And suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth stood away in the dark room. The passionate sibilance of her whisper smote John's ears, like that of a snake.
"At last! At last! ... Oh, you can go now, Billy, Mr. Parkson. Yes—go, or stay! It matters not!"
"But it does matter," said John, "a deuce of a lot!"
And as he spoke the room was shaken with the detonation of a heavy gun—was again lit up with a red light. A second and a third gun was fired—one sound mingling with the other in tremendous crashing reverberation. And at each report a red glow filled the room, searching out the darkness in its most distant corners.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had turned towards John—in the leaping red light, amid the roar of artillery, her eyes pinioned themselves upon his. She drew nearer—peering, as it were, with all her senses, her hands clenched.
Their faces were close together when a red glare revealed his features in every lineament. He was smiling, looking down upon her with easy nonchalance. Even in the fleeting light John caught the swift distortion of her features. She made a movement in the darkness——