“You see that wound in her forehead—you saw it all, from the first,” he said, to the crowd, who were gazing in mute horror at the scene. “I told you, when I took you to the body, that I saw her die, and would tell you how she died, when the time should come. The time has come. He—that man, whose body lies there bleeding, and whose soul is now burning in Tophet, murdered her in cold blood—beat her brains out with his loaded hunting-whip. I—I, Hubert Manvers, saw him do it.” There was a low, dull murmur in the crowd, not of dissent or disbelief, but of doubt. “And who slew master?” exclaimed black Jem Alderly, coming doggedly forward; “this has got to be answered for.” “It is answered for, Alderly,” said Durzil, in a faint but audible voice. “I did it—I slew him, as he has slain me. I am Durzil Olifaunt, whom men call Bras-de-fer. Do any of you chance to know me?” “Ay, ay, all on us! all on us!” shouted half the room; for the frank, gallant, bold young seaman had ever been a general favorite. “Huzza! for Master Durzil!” And in spite of the horrors of the scene, in spite of the presence of the dead, a loud cheer followed. “Hush!” he cried, “hush! this is no time for that, and no place. I am a dying man. There is not five minutes’ life in me. Listen to me. Did any of you ever hear me tell a lie?” “Never! never!” “I should scarce, therefore, begin to do so now, with heaven and hell close before my eyes. Hubert Manvers spoke truly. I also saw him murder her—murder his own wife—for such she was; therefore I killed him!” He gasped for a moment, gathered his breath again, and pointing to the table, “that paper, Hubert—quick—that paper—read it—I—am going—quick!” The young man understood his superior’s meaning in an instant, caught the paper from the table, beckoned two or three of the older men about him, among others, Geoffrey, the old steward, and read aloud the record of the unhappy girl’s marriage. At this moment the young vicar of Widecomb entered the room, and his eyes falling on the paper, “That is my father’s hand-writing,” he cried; “this is the missing leaf of my church register!” “Was she not—was she not—his—wife?” cried Bras-de-fer, raising himself feebly on his elbow, and gazing with his whole soul in his dying eyes at the youthful vicar, and at the horror-stricken circle. “She was—she was assuredly, his lawful wife, and such I will uphold her,” said the young man, solemnly. “Her fame shall suffer no wrong any longer—her soul, I trust, is with her God already—for she was innocent, and good, and humble, as she was lovely and loving. Peace be with her.” “Poor, poor lady!” cried several of the girls who were present, heart-stricken, at the thought of their own past conduct, and of her unvarying sweetness. “Poor, poor lady!” “Hubert—Hubert—I—I have cleared her—char—her character, I have avenged her death; lay me beside her. In ten—ten minutes I shall be—God—bless—bless you, Hubert—with Theresa! A—amen!”