They dragged her back, and a young labourer galloped past them on a farm colt, urging it on to its full pace, his face red and set.
"Who is found?" cried Marcella—"What is it?"
"Westall, miss—Lor' bless you—Shot him in the head they did—blowed his brains right out—and Charlie Dynes—oh! he's knocked about shamful—the doctor don't give no hopes of him. Oh deary—deary me! And we're goin' for Muster Harden—ee must tell the widder—or Miss Mary—none on us can!"
"And who did it?" said Marcella, pale with horror, holding her.
"Why the poachers, miss. Them as they've bin waitin' for all along—and they do say as Jim Hurd's in it. Oh Lord, oh Lord!"
Marcella stood petrified, and let them hurry on.
CHAPTER IX.
The lane was still again, save for the unwonted sounds coming from the groups which had gathered round the two women, and were now moving beside them along the village street a hundred yards ahead.
Marcella stood in a horror of memory—seeing Hurd's figure cross the moonlit avenue from dark to dark. Where was he? Had he escaped? Suddenly she set off running, stung by the thought of what might have already happened under the eyes of that unhappy wife, those wretched children.
As she entered the village, a young fellow ran up to her in breathless excitement. "They've got 'im, miss. He'd come straight home—'adn't made no attempt to run. As soon as Jenkins" (Jenkins was the policeman) "heared of it, ee went straight across to 'is house, an' caught 'im. Ee wor goin' to make off—'is wife 'ad been persuadin' ov 'im all night. But they've got him, miss, sure enough!"