I saw them stagger and fall together, while the bright blood in a crimson torrent poured from his lips and dyed her white, clinging hands.
Then I knew nothing more. I have a vague recollection of a roar as of Niagara filling my ears, a sense of being torn limb from limb, a shuddering thought that this indeed was death and the end had come—and then blackness.
I knew not how many hours or days had passed. When I opened my eyes I was lying on a hard straw bed on the floor of an unplastered attic room. I could see nothing from where I lay but the corner of a window through whose panes the sun streamed in, scarce hindered by the torn blue paper curtain. It shone upon the gorgeous patchwork counterpane upon my bed. It dazzled my eyes, which felt strangely weak.
I tried to move, but could not stir; to speak, but could utter no sound.
Presently, as I lay with closed eyes, I felt that some one had stooped from behind and looked at me. Then I heard a husky whisper,—
“She’s sleepin’ real nateral, don’t ye worry a mite. She’s agoin’ ter git on, you can jest bet on that.” This was followed by a heavy tread which jarred my head with every movement like that of a giant trying to walk on tiptoe. There was a creaking of a door, then a slow, soft thump, thump, thump down the uncarpeted stairs, and all was still.
I lay quiet, wondering what it all meant. Where was I, and what could be the matter? My head was confused. Was Mildred—hush, there was a voice near by talking low; it seemed behind me.
“But it was not so; how could you have thought it so?”
The voice sounded like Mildred’s. It was weak and trembling.
“I went East to find you after it was all over between Agnes and me, but they said you were engaged, you had gone abroad. I could do nothing. I came back; I had my work, and I tried to live.”