"The tune," I answered, "is this: Mr. Hubert Brandling, in the name of God Almighty, whose ministry you have defiled, and whose law you have placed yourself outside, I take it upon myself to judge and put you to death as a wrecker and a murderer." I drew Eustace's pistol from my pocket, aimed steadily and fired. I was half stunned by the report; but through the smoke of my own weapon, I saw Hubert reel and fall across the harpsichord, whose jangling mingled with his short, sharp cry. Even after fifty years, I quite understand how I did that, and when I recall it all, I feel that, old as I am, I would do it over again. What I cannot explain is what I did afterwards, nor the amazing coolness and clearness of head which I enjoyed at that moment. For without losing a minute I went to the harpsichord, and despite the horrid, hot trickle all over my hands, I turned out his pockets and took his keys. Then I left the room, locked it from the outside, and went downstairs singing that French shepherd's song at the top of my voice. The fearful stillness was beginning to frighten me, when, just as I felt my throat grow dry and my voice faint, the same tune answered me in a low whistle, from out of Hubert's study. I knew my husband's whistle, and yet the fact of Hubert's room, the fact that Hubert had been strumming that tune, filled me, for the first time, with horror. But I found the key on the bunch, and unlocked the door. Eustace was seated in an arm chair, unbound, but his clothes torn as after a scuffle.
"Eustace," I said, "I—I have killed Hubert." But to my astonishment he barely gave me time to utter the words; and starting from the chair:
"Quick, quick!" he cries, "there is not a moment to lose. Another ten minutes and we also are dead!" and seizing my arm he drags me away, down the remaining stairs, out by the main door and then at a run across the yard and up into the dripping shrubbery.
"Eustace, Eustace!" I cried breathless, "this is not the way; we shall be seen from the stables."
"No matter," he answered hoarsely, and dragging, almost carrying, me along, "run, Penelope, for our lives."
After about five minutes of desperate and, it seemed to me, random and mad climbing up through the wet bushes, he suddenly stopped and drew forth his watch.
"Where is Davies? At the turn of the road? Not in the house, at least, there is no one in the house? No one except—except that dead man?"
I thought that fear had made him lose his wits, and I dared not tell him that besides that dead man, the house held also a dead woman, our poor, faithful Davies.
"She is out of danger," I answered. We had, by some miracle, found our way to a place where the wall, which fortified St. Salvat's, was partly broken at the top, and overgrown by bushes. With a decision I should never have expected from him, and an extraordinary degree of strength and agility, my husband climbed on to the wall, pulled me up, let himself drop into the dry ditch beyond, and received me in his arms. Then, seizing me again by the hand, we started off once more at a mad run through the wood, stumbling and tearing ourselves against the branches.
"Up the knoll!" he repeated. "I must see! I must see!" And he seemed to me quite mad.