"What did you then?" the duchess cried, in a wild whisper. "I prayed God keep me sane--and knelt--and looked below. I thrust it back--the dead hand, saying aloud, 'Swoon you must not, swoon you must not, swoon you shall not--God help! God help!'--and I saw!--the purple mark--his eyes upturned--his fair curls spread; and I lost strength and fell upon my side, and for a minute lay there--knowing that shudder of breath had been the very last expelling of his being, and his hand had fallen by its own weight." "O God! O God! O God!" Clorinda cried, and over and over said the word, and over again. "How was't--how was't?" Anne shuddered, clinging to her. "How was't 'twas done? I have so suffered, being weak--I have so prayed! God will have mercy--but it has done me to death, this knowledge, and before I die, I pray you tell me, that I may speak truly at God's throne." "O God! O God! O God!" Clorinda groaned--"O God!" and having cried so, looking up, was blanched as a thing struck with death, her eyes like a great stag's that stands at bay. "Stay, stay!" she cried, with a sudden shock of horror, for a new thought had come to her which, strangely, she had not had before. "You thought I _murdered_ him?" Convulsive sobs heaved Anne's poor chest, tears sweeping her hollow cheeks, her thin, soft hands clinging piteously to her sister's. "Through all these years I have known nothing," she wept--"sister, I have known nothing but that I found him hidden there, a dead man, whom you so hated and so feared." Her hands resting upon the bed's edge, Clorinda held her body upright, such passion of wonder, love, and pitying adoring awe in her large eyes as was a thing like to worship. "You thought I _murdered_ him, and loved me still," she said. "You thought I murdered him, and still you shielded me, and gave me chance to live, and to repent, and know love's highest sweetness. You thought I murdered him, and yet your soul had mercy. Now do I believe in God, for only a God could make a heart so noble." "And you--did not--" cried out Anne, and raised upon her elbow, her breast panting, but her eyes growing wide with light as from stars from heaven. "Oh, sister love--thanks be to Christ who died!" The duchess rose, and stood up tall and great, her arms out-thrown. "I think 'twas God Himself who did it," she said, "though 'twas I who struck the blow. He drove me mad and blind, he tortured me, and thrust to my heart's core. He taunted me with that vile thing Nature will not let women bear, and did it in my Gerald's name, calling on him. And then I struck with my whip, knowing nothing, not seeing, only striking, like a goaded dying thing. He fell--he fell and lay there--and all was done!" "But not with murderous thought--only through frenzy and a cruel chance--a cruel, cruel chance. And of your own will blood is not upon your hand," Anne panted, and sank back upon her pillow.