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Jim Donovan turned about, great pity for such density in his eyes.

“Is it possible you don’t understand? It’s to Ichabod Maurice’s they’re going, to tell him of Arnold.” The speaker mopped his face anew. “It’s useless though. They’re too late,” he completed.

“But Arnold is not there,” protested the German. “He went for a rabbit, out on the breaking. He so told me.”

“He lied to you. He’s mad. I tell you they’re too late,” repeated the smith, obstinately.

Hans clung tenaciously to the collar.

“Some one knew and told them?” He pointed in the direction the dust indicated.

“Yes, Bud Evans; but they wouldn’t believe him at first, and”–bitterly–“and waited.” Donovan shook himself free, and started down the walk. “I’m going to bed,” he announced conclusively.

Meanwhile the cloud of dust was moving out over the prairie like the wind. The pace was terrific, and the tough little ponies were soon puffing steadily. Small game, roused from its sleep by the roadside, sprang winging into the night. Once a coyote, surprised, ran a distance confusedly ahead in the roadway; then, an indistinct black ball, it vanished amongst the tall grass.

Well out on the prairie, Bud Evans, the leader, raised in his stirrups and looked ahead. There was no light beyond where the little cottage should be. The rowels of his spur dug anew at the flank of his pony as he turned a voice like a fog-horn back over his shoulder.

“The place is dark, boys,” he called. “Hurry.”

Answering, a muttering sound, not unlike an approaching storm, passed along the line, and in accompaniment the quirts cut the air anew.

Silent as the grave was the little farmstead when, forty odd minutes from the time of starting, they steamed up at the high fence bounding the yard. One of Ichabod’s farm horses whinnied a lone greeting from the barn as they hastily dismounted and swarmed within 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.