“My dear, my dear, what is it?” she sobbed.
But Mabel was up, too, staring out at her husband; and a quick babble of talk and exclamations from behind made itself audible in spite of the roaring tumult of the square.
II
Oliver told them the explanation of the whole affair that evening at home, leaning back in his chair, with one arm bandaged and in a sling.
They had not been able to get near him at the time; the excitement in the square had been too fierce; but a messenger had come to his wife with the news that her husband was only slightly wounded, and was in the hands of the doctors.
“He was a Catholic,” explained the drawn-faced Oliver. “He must have come ready, for his repeater was found loaded. Well, there was no chance for a priest this time.”
Mabel nodded slowly: she had read of the man’s fate on the placards.
“He was killed—trampled and strangled instantly,” said Oliver. “I did what I could: you saw me. But—well, I dare say it was more merciful.”
“But you did what you could, my dear?” said the old lady, anxiously, from her corner.
“I called out to them, mother, but they wouldn’t hear me.”