exed. There the confusion
was at its height. The scabbard had been found near the terrace, with
the baronet's initials thereon.

Men looked into each other's blank faces, afraid to speak the frightful
thoughts that filled their minds.

And in his room Sir Everard lay in a deep stupor--it was not sleep.
Sybilla, upon the first faint signs of consciousness, had administered
a powerful opiate.

"He must sleep," she said, resolutely, to Edwards. "It may save his
life and his reason. He is utterly worn out, and every nerve in his
body is strung to its utmost tension. Let him sleep, poor fellow!"

He lay before her so death-like, so ghastly, so haggard, that the
stoniest enemy might have relented--the pallid shadow of the handsome,
happy bridegroom of two short months ago.

"I have kept my oath," she thought. "I have wreaked the vengeance I
have sworn. If I left him forever now, the _manes_ of Zenith the gypsy
might rest appeased. But the astrologer's prediction--ah! the work
must go on to the appalling end."

Early in the afternoon arrived Lady Kingsland and Mildred, in a
frightful state of excitement and horror. Harriet murdered! The
tragic story had been whispered through The Grange until it reached
their ears, thrilling them to the core of their hearts with terror.

Miss Silver met them--calm, grave, inscrutable.

"I am afraid it is true," she said, "awfully incredible as it seems.
Sir Everard fainted stone-dead, my lady, at sight Of the blood upon the
terrace."

"Great heavens! it is horrible! That unfortunate girl. And my son,
Sybilla, where is he?"

"Asleep in his room, my lady. I administered an opiate. His very
life, I think, depended on it. He will not awake for some hours. Do
not disturb him. Will you come up to your old rooms and remove your
things?"

They followed her. They had come to stay until the suspense was
ended--to take care of the son and brother.

Lady Kingsland wrung her hands in a paroxysm of mortal anguish in the
solitude of her own room.

"Oh, my God!" she cried, "have mercy and spare! My son, my son, my
son! Would God I might die to save you from the worse horrors to come!"

All that day, all the next, and the next, and the next, the fruitless
search for the murdered bride was made. All in vain; not the faintest
trace was to be obtained.

Mr. Parmalee was searched for high and low. Immense rewards were
offered for the slightest trace of him--immense rewards