lay dead within a few feet of him. The
shooting-party were all old and experienced sportsmen. The gun which
Rochester had left leaning against the gate was discovered exactly as
he had left it there, loaded in both barrels. There was not the ghost
of a clue.

Only Lois kept to her room for three days, until she could bear it no
longer. Then she walked out a little way toward the woods, and met
Saton. He recognised her with a shock. He himself, especially now it
was known that Rochester would live, had rapidly recovered from the
fit of horrors which had seized him on that night. It was not so with
Lois. Her cheeks were ghastly pale, and her eyes beringed. She walked
like one recovering from a long illness, and when she saw Saton she
screamed.

He held out his hand, and noticed with swift comprehension her first
instinctive withdrawal.

"Bertrand!" she cried. "Oh, Bertrand!"

"What do you mean?" he asked, hoarsely.

"You know what I mean," she answered. "I don't want to touch you, but
I must or I shall fall. Let me take your arm. We will go and sit
down."

They sat side by side on the trunk of a fallen tree. A small stream
rippled by at their feet. The meadow which it divided was dotted
everywhere with little clumps of large yellow buttercups. She sat at a
little distance from him, and she kept her eyes averted.

"Bertrand," she murmured, "what does it mean? Tell me what I saw that
afternoon. You took up the gun. Was it an accident? But no," she
added, "it is absurd to ask that!"

"You saw me?" he exclaimed quickly. "You believe that you saw me touch
that gun?"

She nodded.

"I hated to go and leave you there," she said. "I waited about behind
those thick blackthorn trees, hoping that you might come my way. I saw
you creep up to the gun. I saw you raise it to your shoulder. Even
then I had no idea what you were going to do. Afterwards I saw the
smoke and the flash. I heard the report, and Mr. Rochester's cry as he
fell. I saw you slip a fresh cartridge into the gun, and go stealing
away. Bertrand, I have not slept since. Tell me, was it a nightmare?"

"It was no nightmare," he answered. "I shot him, and I wish that he
had died!"

She looked at him with horror.

"Bertrand," she faltered, "you can't mean it!"

"Little Lois," he answered, "I do. You do not understand what hatred
is. You do not understand all that it may mean--all that it may cause.
He is my enemy, that man, and I am his. It is a duel betw