"Devereux, if ever you prayed--pray now!" Yet as he uttered these words, he sank to his knees and leaned feebly against the tree, his pallid face suddenly contorted by a dreadful spasm, so that I could scarcely bear to look. Then, sweating with the agonising effort, slowly--slowly--he raised his arm, dwelt a moment on his aim, and fired; the smoking weapon dropped from his lax fingers and, swaying sideways, he sank down, his face among the grass. I remember my uncle George running to aid me lift this heavy head; and glancing from these dreadfully pallid features, the pitiful helplessness of this once strong form, I saw a group of pale-faced men who knelt and crouched above a twisted thing that had once answered to the name of Devereux. "Dead, George?" questioned my uncle Jervas faintly. "Dead, Jervas!" "The right eye, George--I think?" "Yes, Jervas. How is it with you, dear old fellow?" "Very well--I'm going on--ahead of you, George. Don't--don't grieve, George--'t is none so terrible. And the great conundrum is answered, the mystery is solved, George--I mean--our Julia--she will--marry you, George, after all--I think she always loved you--best. God bless you--both! And Peregrine--my dear lad--your gipsy--a strong--angel of God--Diana--" and with this word his noble spirit passed. And thus even death was denied me and I, it seemed, was doomed to be no more than an idle spectator. I remember helping to bear him back to the "Anchor" Inn--laying him reverently upon a settle. And then, because I could not bear to see him so pale and still and silent, I covered him with my cloak. I remember the tears wet upon Anthony's haggard face and my uncle George crouched in a chair, clenched fists beneath square chin, staring wide-eyed on vacancy. "Dead!" he exclaimed in an agonised half-whisper. "I mean to say he's dead, d'ye see. Jervas--dead--seems so impossible! If it could only have been me--it wouldn't ha' mattered so much, d'ye see. There never was any one like old Jervas. And now he's--dead, my God!" The agonised whispering ceased and silence fell that was almost as terrible. But suddenly upon this awful hush broke a sound of wheels--quick footsteps; then the door swung open and Diana stood upon the threshold. "Peregrine!" she cried. "Oh, praise God you are alive--Peregrine--speak to me! Ah--dear God in heaven! What is it?" And hasting to me, she caught my hand, clasping it to her bosom. "Oh, what is it, Peregrine?" she whispered. So I brought her to the settle, and reverently turning back my cloak, showed her what it had hidden. "This!" said I. "Look upon your handiwork and go--wanton!" Uttering a soft, inarticulate cry, she cowered away, shrank back and back across the room and out into the road beyond. Then, treading as softly as I might, I crossed the room also and, closing the door very silently, locked and barred it securely. CHAPTER XI WHICH SHOWS THAT MY UNCLE JERVAS WAS RIGHT, AFTER ALL