“When my father came to us that morning on the veranda, it was to say he had found a man dead, torn to pieces, not ten yards from the house. And that, if such things could happen, it was no place for two women. But you were too excited to listen. You were terrified that you might be taken away from a woman who had no right even to speak to you. You fell backward down the steps before you could be told of the danger, or the strange man who had been killed by the jaguars.” “How do you know they were jaguars?” Not a cry had been wrung from her, though her soul was sick to think how the madman and the cats had betrayed her. How Heriot--she dared not think or she would break down in her icy calm. “We had excellent reason. You fell--my father told that woman her lover was dead, and she must come with us and you. She laughed. She said she would die with him sooner than live with us. She--I took you and ran with you to the boat. My father called the colored servants and went back for the stubborn woman up-stairs. But she tore away from him and ran--ran straight to her death. He saw her torn to pieces before his eyes, as he saw Salome afterward. “The other two women had gone on. They will tell you how they sat in the boat and saw him but just escape with his life. How they heard Salome scream.” His face was white and damp as he finished, for what he knew was a thousand times worse than the lying tale he told. Beryl looked at him, and the scornful, accusing words died on her lips. What did a lie more or less matter when Andria and Heriot were dead? “Beryl,” said Erle softly, “try not to distrust me! My father and I are the only friends you have. You cannot think either he or I would willingly let such things be. Your--the governess”--he watched her face now for answering knowledge, for defiance that was not there--“was nothing to us but a misguided woman. We would have no motive----” “What do you mean to do with me?” she said, as if he had not spoken. “Take you with us; make your life happy, till you forget the horrible things you have known. Hate me,” he exclaimed with sudden passion, casting the memory of his crimes behind him, “if you like, but let me help you--keep you--love you----” Her voice rang in the little cabin. “You killed her!” she said, and pointed at him. “You!” CHAPTER XXXIII. A DREAM OF VENGEANCE. “I never touched a hair of her head,” said the man who had merely tied her up to suffocate or be eaten. “Beryl believe me! I knew her long ago, when first she was Heriot’s--friend.” “I don’t believe you.” She was clasping and unclasping her hands. “Oh,”--she drew her breath and faced him like the little devil he had once called her--“not one word you say is the truth. My cats never touched her. I--they----” but she could not go on. He had made one mistake--one glaring blunder--that made everything seem the lie. It was when he had linked Heriot’s name with Andria’s to a girl who had his own damnation in her pocket.