thin the inclosure.

"We're too late," prophesied a voice.

"I'm glad my name's not Arnold, if we are," responded another,
threateningly.

Hurrying up the path in advance, the little land-agent stumbled over a
soft, dark object, and a curse fell from his lips as he recognized the
dead body of the big collie.

"Yes, we're too late," he echoed.

The door of the house swung ajar, creaking upon its hinges; and, as
penetrates the advance wave of a flood, the men swarmed through the
doorway inside, until the narrow room was blocked. Simultaneously,
like torches, lighted matches appeared aloft in their hands, and the
tiny whitewashed room flashed into light. As simultaneously there
sprang from the mouth of each man an oath, and another, and another.
Waiting outside, not a listener but knew the meaning of that sound;
and big, hairy faces crowded tightly to the one small window.

For a moment not a man in the line stirred. Death was to them no
stranger; but death such as this--

In more than one hand the match burned down until it left a mark like
charcoal, and without calling attention. One and all they stood
spellbound, their eyes on the floor, their lips unconsciously uttering
the speech universal of anger and of horror, the instinctive language
of anathema.

On the floor, sprawling, as falls a lifeless body, lay the long
Ichabod. On his forehead, almost geometrically near the centre, was a
tiny, black spot, around it a lighter red blotch; his face otherwise
very white; his hair, on the side toward which he leaned, a little
matted; that was all.

Prostrate across him, in an attitude of utter abandon, reposed the
body of a woman, soft, graceful, motionless now as that of the man:
the body of Camilla Maurice. One hand had held his head and was
stained dark. On her lips was another stain, but lighter. The meaning
of that last mark came as a flash to the spectators, and the room grew
still as the figures on the floor.

Suddenly in the silence the men caught their breath, with the quick
guttural note that announces the unexpected. That there was no
remaining life they had taken for granted--and Camilla's lips had
moved! They stared as at sight of a ghost; all except Curtis, the
physician.

"A lamp, men," he demanded, pressing his ear to Camilla's chest.

"Help me here, Evans," he continued without turning. "I think she's
fainted is all," and together they carried their burden into the tiny
sleeping-room, closing t