A smothered cry came from Bess’ lips the next moment, as she looked at the face of Berenice Morton. The visitor was still clinging to the hand James had given her to lead her to her position near Bess. Great veins throbbed at her temples, her mouth was opened wide, while horror-stricken eyes stared directly at Dave Davis. Mrs. West sprang quickly to the girl’s side and assisted James in supporting her quavering form.
“Go on!” commanded Davis to the disturbed priest, with asperity.
“Wait!” came the countermand from a resolute voice by his side.
With supreme effort Berenice Morton straightened to her full height, flung her arm, with wide extended fingers, directly at the scarlet, angry face of Dave Davis. For a single brief instant there was an awful silence. All seemed suddenly turned into insensible stone!
“You—Dayton Davies! My own sister’s betrayer!” came in a shriek.
Suddenly an ashen grey spread over the accused man’s countenance, while Bess Fletcher, as the dreadful denouement forced itself into her soul, reeled back against the tree.
As she clutched at her heart the scarlet berries of the kinnikinick squeezed through her fingers, like huge drops of bright blood. Her face was as white as her gown; her lips were rigid and pale. She saw, with impassive concern, Berenice’s fainting form supported by James and Mrs. West, placed upon the carpet of pine needles. It had been scarcely a moment since the terrible words had stunned them all, and yet it seemed hours.
“A mistake, Father Damien, continue!” said Davis, with a voice hoarse with anger.
Bess raised her hand with a forbidding gesture, and the priest, seeing the look of determination upon the girl’s face, needed no words to tell him that his services were not needed.
He softly closed his book and moved silently away.