"I have killed him," was all I said, "even as he killed Lorna.
Now let me see my wife, mother. She belongs to me none the less, though dead."
"You cannot see her now, dear John," said Ruth Huckaback, coming forward, since no one else had the courage.
"Annie is with her now, John."
"What has that to do with it? Let me see my dead and pray to die."
All the women fell away and whispered, and looked at me with side glances, and some sobbing, for my face was hard as flint. Ruth alone stood by me, and dropped her eyes and trembled. Then one little hand of hers stole into my great shaking palm, and the other was laid on my tattered coat; yet with her clothes she shunned my blood, while she whispered gently:
"John, she is not dead. She may even be your living one yet—your wife, your home, and your happiness. But you must not see her now."
Now, whether it was the light and brightness of my Lorna's nature, or the freedom from anxiety, but anyhow, one thing is certain; sure as the stars of hope above us, Lorna recovered long ere I did.