Then Marianne Saltren uttered a piercing shriek and tossed, and put her teeth to her husband’s hand to bite at the fingers and force them to relax their grasp. “There are people coming,” she screamed, “I will tell them all that you killed him. Let me go. I cannot bear your touch.” “You accursed woman, you daughter of the old father of lies,” said Saltren between his teeth, and the bubbles formed in his mouth as he spoke through his teeth, “I will not let you go till you have told me who was the father of Giles.” Suddenly, however, he let go her wrist, but she had her liberty for a moment only. He had drawn his black silk neckerchief round her throat, and twisted the ends about his fingers under her chin. “Marianne, I killed him. Yet not I. I am but the executioner under Providence. What heaven judges that I carry out. And now I do not care if I kill you, after I killed him. I will kill you, I will strangle you, unless you confess who was the father of Giles.” He was capable of doing what he threatened. “It were best for you,” he said, “wicked woman, to suffer here a little pain, than burn eternally. Confess, or I will send you into the world beyond.” She was quiet for a moment, desisting from her useless struggle. “You will release me if I say?” “I will do so.” “He was a wonderfully handsome man then, a very fine fellow, the handsomest I ever saw.” “Who was he?” “There were others besides me lost their hearts to him.” “Who was he?” “I hear voices below the house. People are coming. You will be taken and hung because you killed him.” “Who was he?” Saltren did not move a muscle. “Let them come, and they will find you dead also, beside him.” “You cannot judge of what he was by what he is now.” “His name?” Again she looked to right and left, in spite of the grip under her chin, and made a start to escape, but instantly he tightened the kerchief and she became red as blood. “Marianne,” said Saltren. “His name?” He relaxed the pressure. She listened, no—she heard no voices, only mingled cawing of rooks and thumping of pulses in her ears. “If you must know?” “I must.” “It was—Samuel Ceely.” CHAPTER XXXII. A PLACE OF REFUGE. He thrust her away from him with an exclamation of disgust. Then he stooped. A tuft of meadow-sweet grew among the stones where the dead man lay, and its white flowers were full of pollen, and the pollen, shaken from them, had fallen, and formed a dust over the upturned face.