which was of silver; but of the body, not a
trace. My heart thumped upon my ribs, the hair stirred upon my scalp, as
I stood there staring--so strange was the sight, so dire the fears it
wakened. I looked right and left; the ground was so hard, it told no
story. I stood and listened till my ears ached, but the night was hollow
about me like an empty church; not even a ripple stirred upon the shore;
it seemed you might have heard a pin drop in the county.

I put the candle out, and the blackness fell about me groping dark; it
was like a crowd surrounding me; and I went back to the house of
Durrisdeer, with my chin upon my shoulder, startling, as I went, with
craven suppositions. In the door a figure moved to meet me, and I had
near screamed with terror ere I recognised Mrs. Henry.

"Have you told him?" says she.

"It was he who sent me," said I. "It is gone.--But why are you here?"

"It is gone!" she repeated. "What is gone?"

"The body," said I. "Why are you not with your husband?"

"Gone?" said she. "You cannot have looked. Come back."

"There is no light now," said I. "I dare not."

"I can see in the dark. I have been standing here so long--so long,"
said she. "Come, give me your hand."

We returned to the shrubbery hand in hand, and to the fatal place.

"Take care of the blood," said I.

"Blood?" she cried, and started violently back.

"I suppose it will be," said I. "I am like a blind man."

"No," said she, "nothing! Have you not dreamed?"

"Ah, would to God we had!" cried I.

She spied the sword, picked it up, and seeing the blood, let it fall
again with her hands thrown wide. "Ah!" she cried, and then, with an
instant courage, handled it the second time, and thrust it to the hilt
into the frozen ground. "I will take it back and clean it properly,"
says she, and again looked about her on all sides. "It cannot be that he
was dead?" she added.

"There was no flutter of his heart," said I, and then remembering: "Why
are you not with your husband?"

"It is no use," said she; "he will not speak to me."

"Not speak to you?" I repeated. "Oh! you have not tried."

"You have a right to doubt me," she replied, with a gentle dignity.

At this, for the first time, I was seized with sorrow for her. "God
knows, madam," I cried, "God knows I am not so hard as I appear; on this
dreadful night who can veneer his words? But I am a friend to all who
are not Henry Durie's enemies."

"It is hard, then, you sho