CHAPTER XXXV.
LIKE THE SPIRIT OF A LITTLE CHILD.
The smoke of the gun curled slowly and reluctantly out of the narrow windows, and through the garret opening I heard a hurried rush of feet beneath me on the stairs, light and quick—a woman’s footsteps when she is young. My head span round, and had it not been for Mary Gordon, whose arm caught and steadied me, I should doubtless have fallen from top to bottom.
“Quintin, Quintin,” she cried, passionately, “are you hurt? Oh, my father has slain him. Wherefore did I let him go?”
I held by the wall and steadied myself on her shoulder, scarce knowing what I did.
Suddenly she cried aloud, a little frightened cry, and, drawing her kerchief from her bosom, she reached up and wiped my brow, down which red drops were trickling.
“You are hurt! You are sort hurt!” she cried. “And it is all my fault!”
Then I said, “Nay, Mary, I am not hurt. It was but a faintish turn that came and passed.”
“Oh, come away,” she cried; “he will surely slay you if you bide here, and your blood will be upon my hands.”
“Nay, Mary,” I answered; “the demon, and not your father, did this thing, and such can do nothing without permission. I will yet meet and expel the devil in the name of the Lord!”
She put her netted fingers about my arm to draw me away; nevertheless, even then, I withstood her.