Bess came to a dead halt suddenly some ten paces from the palings. She seized Jeffray’s wrist, and stood pointing to the body of a man lying in the long grass. Her eyes had dilated, the pupils swimming black, and awed under the long lashes.
“Look!”
Jeffray went a step nearer and gazed down at the man lying in the grass. His head was twisted to one side, the upper lip drawn up over the teeth in a snarling grin. There was blood on the black beard, blood on the hairy chest and on the shirt that flapped open from the massive throat. It was Dan who lay dead with a musket-bullet through his chest.
Bess and Jeffray stood and looked into each other’s eyes. Her hand still gripped his wrist spasmodically. He saw her lips move, saw the unuttered question in her eyes.
“He is dead,” he said, solemnly.
“Who, who?”
“Dan, your husband.”
She tottered and clung to him, struggling for her breath, yet still staring at the dead man in the grass. Jeffray had one arm about her body. He was as white as Bess, yet the master of his own manhood. A shout came to him across the clearing. Several red-coats were approaching the cottage, led by an officer with his sword drawn.
XLIII
Jeffray, rising above the entanglements of the moment, took Bess by the arm, and led her back through the gate towards the cottage. He spoke a few words to her, warning her to keep the manner of Dan’s death secret, and to leave the unravelling of the coil to him. Bess, looking like one in pain, sank down on the rough bench beside the door. The shock of seeing her dead husband’s face had unnerved her utterly for the moment.