"
"But you said he had been killed."
"I do not know; there was no time for me to be sure of that. The shot
struck him here in the chest, and when he fell he knocked me down. I
tore open his shirt, and bound up the wound hastily; it did not bleed
much. He never spoke after that, and lay perfectly still."
"Poor old Fred. I'll do what I can for him--I'll not be away a minute,
dear."
He could see little from the doorway, only the dark shadow of a man's
form lying full length on the floor. To enter he pushed aside the
uptilted bed, picking up the shotgun, and setting it against the log
wall. Then he took the lamp down from the shelf, and held it so the
feeble light fell upon the upturned face. He stared down at the
features thus revealed, unable for the moment to find expression for
his bewilderment.
"Can you come here, dear?" he called.
She stood beside him, gazing from his face into those features on which
the rays of the lamp fell.
"What is it?" she questioned breathlessly. "Is he dead?"
"I do not know; but that man is not Cavendish.
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