And suddenly, from east to west, from north to south, as far as the trees and wolds in the dim, forgotten east, the exhausted livid clouds blushed wave on wave, league on league, red as the heart of a rose. The wind-whipped earth was still. The trees held their breath. Very black against the glow the carved cross on the adjoining gable stood out. And in another moment the mighty tide of color went as it had come, swiftly ebbing across its infinite shores of sky. And the waiting night came down suddenly. "Oh, my God!" said Rachel, stretching out her hands to ward off the darkness. "Not another night. I cannot bear another night." A slow step came along the gravel; it passed below the window and stopped at the door. Some one knocked. Rachel tore open the throat of her gown. She was suffocating. Her long-drawn breathing seemed to deaden all other sounds. Nevertheless she heard it--the faint footfall of some one in the hall, a distant opening and shutting of doors. A vague, indescribable tremor seemed to run through the house. She stole out of her room and down the passage. At Lady Newhaven's door her French maid was hesitating, her hand on the handle. Below, on the stairs, stood a clergyman and the butler. "I am the bearer of sad tidings," said the clergyman. Rachel recognized him as the Archdeacon at whom Lord Newhaven had so often laughed. "Perhaps you would prepare Lady Newhaven before I break them to her." The door was suddenly opened, and Lady Newhaven stood in the doorway. One small clinched hand held together the long white dressing-gown, which she had hastily flung round her, while the other was outstretched against the door-post. She swayed as she stood. Morphia and terror burned in her glassy eyes fixed in agony upon the clergyman. The light in the hall below struck upward at her colorless face. In later days this was the picture which Lady Newhaven recalled to mind as the most striking of the whole series. "Tell her," said Rachel, sharply. The Archdeacon advanced. "Prepare yourself, dear Lady Newhaven," he said, sonorously. "Our dear friend, Lord Newhaven, has met with a serious accident. Er--the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." "Is he dead?" whispered Lady Newhaven. The Archdeacon bowed his head. Every one except the children heard the scream which rang through the house. Rachel put her arms round the tottering, distraught figure, drew it gently back into the room, and closed the door behind her. CHAPTER XXXVI And Nicanor lay dead in his harness. --1 MACABEES, xv. 28. Rachel laid down the papers which were full of Lord Newhaven's death. "He has managed it well," she said to herself. "No one could suspect that it was not an accident. He has played his losing game to the bitter end, weighing each move. None of the papers even hint that his death was not an accident. He has provided against that."