Again he paused. Again there were a few seconds' silence--silence save
for the quick breathing of the Duchess, who was crumpling her lace
handkerchief into a little ball in her hands.

Then Pauline's voice came to them.

"There is a gun laid against a gate which leads into the field," she
said--"a gun, and by its side a bag of cartridges. Someone has been
hiding behind the wall. He has the gun in his hands. He looks along
the path. There is no one coming."

A woman from the little group of people commenced to sob softly.
Pauline's voice ceased. Someone put a hand over the mouth of the
frightened woman.

"Go on," Saton said.

"The man has the gun in his hand. He goes down on his knees," Pauline
continued. "The gun is pointed towards Mr. Rochester. There is a puff
of smoke, a report, Mr. Rochester has fallen down. He is up again.
Then he falls!--yes, he falls!"

Saton passed his hand across his forehead.

"Go on," he said.

"The man is taking the cartridge from the gun," Pauline said. "He
slips in another from the bag. He has leaned the gun against the gate.
He is stealing away."

Saton leaned towards her till he seemed even about to spring.

"You could not see his face?" he said.

There was no answer. Two of the women behind were sobbing now. A third
was lying back, half unconscious. Rochester had risen to his feet. The
faces of all of them seemed suddenly to reflect a new and nameless
terror.

Saton moved slowly towards Pauline. He moved unsteadily. The
perspiration now was standing in thick beads upon his forehead. He
suddenly realized his risk.

"You could not see his face?" he repeated. "You do not know who it was
that fired that gun?"

"I could not see his face," she repeated. "But I--I can see it now."

"You do not recognise it?" he said, and his voice seemed to come
tearing from his throat, charged with some new and compelling quality.
"You cannot recognise it? You do not know whether you have ever seen
it before?"

Pauline rose suddenly to her feet. Her bosom was heaving, her face was
like a white mask. Her hands were suddenly thrown high above her head.

[Illustration: She swayed for a moment, and fell over on her side.]

"It is horrible!" she shrieked. "It was you who fired the gun!--You!"

She swayed for a moment, and fell over on her side like a dead
woman--her arms thrown out, her limbs inert, as though indeed it
were death which had stricken her.

Rochester, with a shout of anger