For an instant I could not utter a sound, or move a muscle of my body. My hands clung convulsively to a nearby branch, thus supporting me erect in spite of trembling limbs, and I stared at the grewsome object, black and almost shapeless in the moonlight. Only part of the trunk was revealed, the lower portion concealed by bushes, yet I could no longer doubt it was a man's body--a large, heavily built man, his hat still crushed on his head, but with face turned away. What courage overcame my horror, and urged me forward I cannot tell; I seemed impelled by some power not my own, a vague fear of recognition tugging at my heart. I crept nearer, almost inch by inch, trembling at every noise, dreading to discover the truth. At last I could perceive the ghastly features--the dead man was Hugo Chevet. I scarcely know why this discovery of his identity brought back so suddenly my strength, and courage. But it did; I was no longer afraid, no longer shrank from contact with the corpse. I confess I felt no special sorrow, no deep regret at the fate which had overtaken him. Although he was my mother's brother, yet his treatment of me had never been kind, and there remained no memories to touch my heart. Still his death was from treachery, murder, and every instinct urged me to learn its cause, and who had been guilty of the crime. I nerved myself to the effort, and turned the body sufficiently to enable me to discover the wound--he had been pierced by a knife from behind; had fallen, no doubt, without uttering a cry, dead ere he struck the ground. Then it was murder, foul murder, a blow in the back. Why had the deed been done? What spirit of revenge, of hatred, of fear, could have led to such an act? I got again to my feet, staring about through the weird moonlight, every nerve throbbing, as I thought to grip the fact, and find its cause. Slowly I drew back, shrinking in growing terror from the corpse, until I was safely in the priest's garden. There I paused irresolute, my dazed, benumbed brain beginning to grasp the situation, and assert itself. CHAPTER XV THE MURDER OF CHEVET Who had killed him? What should I do? These were the two questions haunting my mind, and becoming more and more insistent. The light still burned in the mission house, and I could picture the scene within--the three priests reading, or talking softly to each other, and Cassion asleep on his bench in the corner, wearied with the day. I could not understand, could not imagine a cause, and yet the assassin must have been De Artigny. How else could I account for his presence there in the night, his efforts at concealment, his bending over the dead body, and then hurrying away without sounding an alarm. The evidence against the man seemed conclusive, and yet I would not condemn. There might be other reasons for his silence, for his secret presence, and if I rushed into the house, proclaiming my discovery, and confessing what I had seen, he would be left without defense.