I nerved myself to the effort, and turned the body sufficiently to enable me to discover the wound––he had been pierced by a knife from behind; had fallen, no doubt, without uttering a cry, dead ere he struck the ground. Then it was murder, foul murder, a blow in the back. Why had the deed been done? What spirit of revenge, of hatred, of fear, could have led to such an act? I got again to my feet, staring about through the weird moonlight, every nerve throbbing, as I thought to grip the fact, and find its cause. Slowly I drew back, shrinking in growing terror from the corpse, until I was safely in the priest’s garden. There I paused irresolute, my dazed, benumbed brain beginning to grasp the situation, and assert itself.
CHAPTER XV
THE MURDER OF CHEVET
Who had killed him? What should I do? These were the two questions haunting my mind, and becoming more and more insistent. The light still burned in the mission house, and I could picture the scene within––the three priests reading, or talking softly to each other, and Cassion asleep on his bench in the corner, wearied with the day.
I could not understand, could not imagine a cause, and yet the assassin must have been De Artigny. How else could I account for his presence there in the night, his efforts at concealment, his bending over the dead body, and then hurrying away without sounding an alarm. The evidence against the man seemed conclusive, and yet I would not condemn. There might be other reasons for his silence, for his secret presence, and if I rushed into the house, proclaiming my discovery, and confessing what I had seen, he would be left without defense.
Perhaps it might be the very purpose of the real murderer to thus cast suspicion on an innocent man, and I would be the instrument. But who else could 182 be the murderer? That it could have been Cassion never seriously occurred to me, but I ran over in my mind the rough men of our party––the soldiers, some of them quarrelsome enough, and the Indians to whom a treacherous blow was never unnatural. This must have been the way it happened––Chevet had made some bitter enemy, for he was ever prodigal of angry word and blow, and the fellow had followed him through the night to strike him down from behind. But why did De Artigny fail to sound an alarm when he found the body? Why was he hiding about the mission house, and peering in through the window?
I sank my face in my hands, so dazed and bewildered as to be incapable of thought––yet I could not, I would not believe him guilty of so foul a crime. It was not possible, nor should he be accused through any testimony from my lips. He could explain, he must explain to me his part in this dreadful affair, but, unless he confessed himself, I would never believe him guilty. There was but one thing for me to do––return silently to my room, and wait. Perhaps he had already descended to camp to alarm the men; if not the body would be early discovered in the morning, and a few hours delay could make no difference to Hugo Chevet.
The very decision was a relief, and yet it frightened me. I felt almost like an accomplice, as though I also was guilty of a crime by thus concealing my knowledge, 183 and leaving that body to remain alone there in the dark. Yet there was nothing else to do. Shrinking, shuddering at every shadow, at every sound, my nerves throbbing with agony, I managed to drag my body up the logs, and in through the window. I was safe there, but there was no banishing from memory what I had seen––what I knew lay yonder in the wood shadow. I sank to the floor, clutching the sill, my eyes staring through the moonlight. Once I thought I saw a man’s indistinct figure move across an open space, and once I heard voices far away.