"You had better remain with me," he called, and she obeyed him without a murmur.
They reached the churchyard, and passed under the porch through the gateway, and at the far side, near the wall, the Squire saw a red coat on a tombstone; then he distinguished the form of a man. Irene had not seen it, and he led her down a side path.
"Be brave, Irene!" he said. "If he is in danger you will have to summon up all your courage to help him."
"I will," she said; "indeed I will."
Then she saw the red coat, and started back, her hand pressed against her heart, her eyes filled with horror.
"He is lying on the stone on the top of a vault," she said, in a hollow voice. "How did he get there?"
She stumbled forward over the graves, leaving the Squire to follow. She grazed her ankles, but heeded not, and at last she reached him.
Snatching the handkerchief away, she stood looking at his face, with the closed eyes and the black mark on the neck. She stood perfectly still; no cry came from her; but her look of horror told she knew he was dead.
The Squire reached her just as she fell forward, insensible, on her husband's body. He lifted her tenderly in his arms, and sat down on the slab. With one hand he drew the handkerchief over Warren's face again.
"This is a sad blow," he thought. "It is a blessing she is insensible. It may be all for the best."