When within half a mile of Kalahua, almost fainting from loss of blood and exhaustion, he pulled up his horse at a hut on the borders of the estate and got off. There were some five or six natives inside, and they started up with quick expressions of sympathy when they saw his condition.
“Give me a weapon, O friends,” he said. “Some man hath tried to kill me.”
A short squat native smiled grimly, reached to the rafters of the dwelling, and took down a heavy carbine, which he loaded and then handed to the white man.
“'Tis Moreno who hath hurt thee,” said the native; “at midnight he rode by here in hot haste.”
With the native supporting him, Prout rode along the road to the Estate gates.
As he reeled through he heard a faint cry.
In another minute he was on the verandah and looking through the French lights into Marie's dimly-lighted bedroom. An inarticulate cry of anguish burst from him. Sherard and his wife were together.
Steadying himself against a post he took aim at the trembling figure of his wife, and fired. She threw up her arms and fell upon her face, and then Sherard, pistol in hand, dashed out and met him.
Ere he could draw the trigger, Prout swung the heavy weapon round, and the stock crashed into the traitor's brain.
“It is the death of a dog,” said the native, spurning the body with his naked foot.