"Then you don't know what has happened to him?"
"Why, what?" asked Margaret, agitated.
"He is dead!"
"Dead!" she cried. "What, dead? For God's sake! Why, only this morning he passed by here, perfectly well, with his gun on his back!"
"He is dead," repeated the clerk, eyeing her sharply, "killed by the 'Blue Smocks.' The body was brought into the village fifteen minutes ago."
Margaret clasped her hands. "God in Heaven, do not judge him! He did not know what he was doing!"
"Him!" cried the clerk—"the cursèd murderer you mean?"
A heavy groan came from the bedroom. Margaret hurried there and the clerk followed her. Frederick was sitting upright in bed, with his face buried in his hands, and moaning like one dying. "Frederick, how do you feel?" asked his mother.
"How do you feel?" repeated the clerk.
"Oh, my body, my head!" he wailed.