When the excitement had subsided, Mr. Duke looked towards Thora and asked her to tell all she knew, in her own way, and to omit no detail. She accordingly stepped a little nearer to the table, resting her hand upon it, and gave her evidence in a clear, unfaltering voice. Her narrative was to the following effect:
On the day of the commencement of the snowstorm Thora, who had not been to school since her illness, went over to Clouston to visit her young friend Hilda Paterson. When the storm came on she issued out of the cottage and took the road as far as Stenness, and over the undulating land of Sandwick, where the snow wreaths were already so deep that often on her way she failed to recognize the landmarks. She travelled in uncertainty as to the direction she was taking, and felt utterly tired out--for she was not yet strong--when she came unexpectedly to a little cottage, and, to her dismay, found she had walked nearly three miles out of the direct road home.
The cottage was a tiny building of rough stones, and the snow found its way inside through the wide crevices in the walls. It was the home of one Mary Firth, a lone old woman who earned her living by knitting stockings and burning kelp. Opening the door, Thora entered the only room. There was no one within and the fire was dead out, for Mary Firth had gone away that morning to Kirkwall to sell her stock of knitting. Thora was cold and hungry; she considered it impossible to reach Crua Breck before dark, and the snow was falling heavily, so she determined to wait till old Mary returned. She got a few pieces of dry peat from a corner and piled them on the hearth, then sought for Mary's flint and steel, and proceeded to kindle a fire. Its warmth was comforting, and she sat there on a low stool until the peats glowed hot and the kettle began to boil.
Still Mary did not return. There was no tea to be found in the cupboard and the only particle of food was a piece of oaten bannock. There were a few raw potatoes, however, and Thora put some of these in the fire to roast.
She was looking out at the falling snow through the little window, and expecting Mary, when in the distance she saw the figure of a man walking in the direction of Lyndardy farm, and bending forward as he fought against wind and snow. Behind him was a dog, and she knew at once that the man was Colin Lothian.
Now Thora had been anxious to meet the old wanderer ever since I had told her of the wreck of the Undine, and throwing her shawl over her head she ran out of the cottage to bid him enter and share the meal she had prepared.
She had not gone far, however, before she observed another person approaching old Lothian from the opposite direction. This was Tom Kinlay, and as she recognized him she paused and slowly retreated to the cottage without being observed, for she had no desire to meet him, or be seen by him at that moment.
As she looked round the two men met and stood face to face. The wind carried the sound of their voices towards her, and she heard angry words pass between them. Yet what they said was indistinct. She only gathered that they were quarrelling about something that Lothian had told to the excise officers. The dog barked at Kinlay, and he kicked the animal.
Finally, Tom allowed the old man to continue his way a few yards and shouted after him, "Well, anyhow, you'll tell no more;" and as he said these words he raised a gun to his shoulder and fired.
The girl saw Lothian stagger and fall. Then Tom went and knelt down at the side of his victim as though he would complete his work with the knife he took from his belt. But, looking nervously round in the direction of the cottage, as though fearing that the report of the gun might bring some one out, he hurried away in the direction of the cliffs, carrying with him a rope which was coiled over his shoulder.