The sponging cleaned the flesh of the ghastly stain, and the small wound with its blackened rim lay revealed in all its horrid significance. The girl’s eyes fixed themselves on it, and for some seconds she watched the blood as it welled up to the surface. The meaning of the puncture forced itself slowly upon her mind, and she realized that it was no accident which had laid her lover low. Her eyes remained directed towards the crimson flow, but their expression had changed, as had the set of her features. A hard, relentless look had replaced the one of tender pity––a look which indexed a feeling more strong than any other in the human organism. She was beginning to understand now that a crime had been committed, and a vengeful hate for some person unknown possessed her.
She pointed at the wound, and her voice sounded icily upon the stillness of the room.
“That,” she said. “They have murdered him.”
“He has been shot.” The parson looked up into the girl’s face.
Then followed a pause. Sarah Gurridge and Prudence’s mother stole softly in and approached the bedside. The former carried a tumbler of brandy in her hand and came to Mr. Danvers’s side; Mrs. Malling ranged herself beside her daughter, but the latter paid no heed to her.
The farm-wife lifted the girl’s hand from the bedpost and caressed it in loving sympathy. Then she endeavoured to draw her away.
“Come, child, come with me. You can do no good here.”
Prudence shook her off roughly. Nor did she answer. Her mother did not renew her attempt.
All watched while Danvers forced some of the spirit between Grey’s tightly-closed lips and then stood up to note the effect.