She pointed out the window. “Hark at dat!” she whispered. “De ole man’s singing ’cause master’s dead.” “Gone!” Andria got somehow to her feet, and nearly fell with the pain in her swimming head. “Quick, when--did they go?” It hurt intolerably to speak, but the dizziness was passing. Salome told her, but to the story of Egerton’s race with death Andria hardly listened. Raimond had got Beryl, and would have killed her to do it. Mad with rage at seeing her, he had struck her down on the floor; and then, for fear of what she might come to herself and do, had tied her, hand and foot, and left her to the jaguars. She was a woman, and too faithful. There is no sin on earth a man resents so much. “Go look through the house!” she cried, holding her aching head and feeling her hand, wet with her blood from the cut Raimond’s ring had left. But she knew the search was useless. And Egerton’s death was neither here nor there. He might have been murdered before his son’s eyes, but Raimond would not let the girl go on account of it. “I fought so badly,” she thought, in wild self-reproach. “I made him furious. And I knew, if he were angry, he would stop at nothing. Oh, Beryl, Beryl!” Sick at heart, with the knowledge of what lay before the girl when Raimond should tire of her--for a legitimate wife can be neglected as well as another when her novelty palls--she leaned against Salome, utterly motionless and despairing. “If I’d a gun,” said the woman, suddenly and savagely, “I’d kill dat ole man out dere! Standing yelling at de house like a meowing cat.” “Which man?” but, as if new life had sprung in her, Andria sat erect and listened. The cry that was enough like a jaguar’s to deceive most people, rose across the stillness, and the sound of it made the slow blood come into her pale cheeks. Just so, Beryl had told her, would the old man make his cats cry when Heriot and he came back. But for Beryl Corselas they had come too late. “Salome!” Andria exclaimed, and for the first time there were tears in her hopeless eyes. “It’s Mr. Heriot, he’s come back! Come, help me. We must go out, or he won’t know we’re alone.” “Go out--and it gettin’ on to sundown! Lie down, my lamb,” said Salome coaxingly, “and rest your head.” For the poor soul could only think the blow had taken her mistress’ wits. “No, no!” said Andria. Between laughing and crying she poured out all that Salome did not know, and saw, even then, that the woman did not believe her. “You can stay here,” she ended. “I’ll go. You know the old man won’t hurt us now.” “Not wid little miss at our backs, p’r’aps,” said Salome grimly. “How do you know he won’t say we’ve took and killed her? Where’d we be den?” But she followed Andria down-stairs, helped her across the garden, too stanch to leave her alone, though great beads of sweat rolled off her forehead in her fright. “Mr. Heriot!” Andria called, leaning against Salome’s terrified bulk. “Mr. Heriot!”