She sat down on the ground and wept bitterly, while he sat silently beside her, seeking to comfort her with his arms.
At last she said in an awed tone: "Lawrence, he is dead. Killed by his own blow—with his own knife. But I might have done it. I—I thought of it."
She remembered the touch of the knife in her hands, the sight of Philip's blood seeping out around his own body.
"It is terrible," she moaned. "I—I might have done it."
Her lover's hands tightened spasmodically. His face went white, then became normal again. She watched him, hypnotized. Would he tell her that she was as good as a murderer, that he could not love her now?
He wet his lips, then suddenly laughed aloud. Claire could have screamed at the sound. She clutched his arm and shook him.
"Stop it!" she commanded. "What is it, Lawrence?"
He stood up and lifted her beside him.
"I must have a drink," he said calmly.
She stared at him, then brought him some water from beside the cabin. He drank it easily, but with some pain. Finally he dropped the cup at his feet.